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AP 
4- 



GOMMXTTSB. 

Chairman— LORD BROUGHAM. F.R.S., Member of the Natioual Institute of France. 
TreanrerSir I. L. GOLDSMID. Bart., F.R. and R.A.S. 



Captain Beaufort. UN., F.R. and R.A.S. 

Lord Campbell. 

1\ S. Carey. Esq., A.M. 

Thomas Coatea, Esq 

John Conolly, M.D. 

William Coulton, Esq. 

Tne Bishop of St. David's. 

Sir Henrv De U Beche. F.R.S. 

Professor' De Morgan, F.R.A.S. 

Lord Den man. 

T. F Ellis, Esq.. A.M.. F.R.A.S. 

Thomas Falconer, Esq. 

John Forbes, M.D., F.R.S. 



F.H. Goldsmid. Esq. 

B. Gomperti, Esq., F.R. and R.A.S. 

J. T. Graves, Esq.. A.M., F.R.S. 

M. D.Hill, Esq. Q.C. 

Right Hon. Sir J. C. Hobhouse, Bart., M.P. 

Thos. Hodgkin. M.D. 

Henry B. Kcr. Esq. 

Professor Key. A.M. 

John G. 8. Lefevre, Esq.. A.M. 

Sir Dents Le Marchant. Hart. 

Sir Charles Lemon, Bart., M.P. 

George C. Lewis, Esq., A.M. 

Right Hon. S. Lushington, D.C.L. 



Profe*tor Maiden, A.M . 

A.T.Mai km, Esq.. A.M. 

Mr. Serjeant Manning. 

Lard Nugent. 

Sir Thomas Phillips, Bart. 

Professor Quain. 

Professor Thomson. M.D., F.L.S. 

Thomas Vardon, Esq. 

Jacob Woley, Esq.. A.M. 

Jas. Walker, Esq., F.R.S. 

Thos. Wobster, Esq., A.M. 

Lord Wrottesley. A.M., F.R.A.S. 



XiOCAXi COMMITTEES. 



Alton. Staffordshire— Ke*. J. P. Jones. 
Angletea— Rev. E. Williams. 

Rev. W. Johnson. 

— Miller, Esq. 
Barnstaple— — rteneraft, Esq. 

William Gribble, E*q. 
Beljhst— J«s. L. Druraraond, M.D. 
Birmingham- Paul Moon James, Esq. 
Bridport— James Williams. Esq. 
Bristol -J. N. Sanders. Esq.. F.G.S. 

J. Revnolds, Esq. 

J. B. Estlin, Esq,F.L.S. 
Calcutta — James Young, Esq. 

C. H. Cameron, Esq. 
Cambridge— Rex. Leonard Jenyns, A.M., F.L.S. 

Rev. John Lodge. A.M. 

Rev. Prof. Sedjwick. A.M., F.R.S. fc G.S. 
Canterbury— John Brent, Esq. 

William Masters, Esq. 
Carlisle— Thomas Barnes, M.D., F.R.S.B. 
Carnarvon— K. A. Poole, Esq. 

William Roberts, Esq. 
Chester— Henry Potts, Esq. 
Chichester— C. C. Dendy. E*q. 
Corfu— John Crawford, Esq. 

Plato Petrides. 
Coventry— C. Bray, Esq. 
Denbigh— Thomas Evans. Esq. 
2)*rty— Joseph Strutt, Esq. 

Edward Strutt. Esq., M.P. 
Detmport and Storehouse- John Cole, Esq. 

John Normnn, Esq. 

Lt. Col. C Hamilton Smith, F.R.S. 
Durham— The Very Rev. the Dean. 
Edinburgh— J. S. Tiaill, M.D. 
Exeter— J. Tyrrell, Esq. 

John Milford, Esq. (Gwrocr.) 



Glamorganshire— W. Williams, Esq., Aber- 

pergwm. 
Glasgow— Alexander McGrigor, Esq. 

James Cowpcr, Esq. 

A. J. D. D'Orsev, Esq. 
Guernsey— F. C. Lukiss. Esq. 
Hitcham, Suffolk— Rev. Professor Henslow, 

A.M.. F.L.S. & G.S. 
Hull— James Bowden, Esq. 
Leeds— J. Marshall. Esq. 
Lewes- J. W. Woollgar. Esq. 

Henry Browne, Esq. 
Lwerviti Ixtcal Association— 

i. Mullenenx, Esq. 
MaidsPme-Clement T. Smyth. Esq. 

John Case, Esq. 
Manchester- 
Sit Benjamin Heywood. Bart. 

Sir George Philips. Bart., MP. 

T. N. Winstanley, Esq. 
Mertkyr Tyrfetf-Sir J. J. Guest, Bart.. M.P. 
Minchmhampton— John G. Ball, Esq. 
Neath— John Rowland, Esq. 
Newcastle-Rev. W. Turner. 

T. Sopwith. Esq., F.G.S. 
Newport, Isle of Wight- Ab. Clarke. Esq. 

T. Cooke, Jun., Esq. 

R. G. Kirkpatrick, Esq. 
Newport Pagnell—i. Millar, Esq. 
Norwich— Richard Bacon, Esq. 

Wm. Forster, Esq. 
Orsett, Essex— Vr. CorbetU 
Oxford— 

Ch.Daubenv.M.D., F.R.S.,Prof. Chem. 

Rev. Badeu Powell, Sav. Prof. 

Rev. John Jordan, H.A. 



Pesth, Hungary — Count Szechenyi. 
Plymouth— H. Woollcombe, Esq.. F.A.S. 

Wm. Snow Harris. Esq., F.R.S. 

E. Moore, M.D. , F.L.S. 

G. Wightwick, Esq. 
Presteign— Rt. Hon. Sir H. Brvdges, Bart. 

A. W. Davis, M.D. 
Ripou— Rev. H. P. Hamilton, A.M., F.R.S., QS. 

Rev. P. Ewart, A.M. 
Ruthin— The Rev. the Warden. 

Humphrevs Jones, Esq. 
Ryde t Isle of fright— Sir R. Simeon. Bt. 
Salisbury— Key. J. Barfitt. 
Sheffield— 3. H. Abrahams, Esq. 
Shepton Mallet— G. F. Burroughs, E*q. 
Shrewsbury — R. A. Slaney, Esq. 
South Petherton— John Nirholetts, Esq. 
Stockport— H. Marsland, Esq. 

Henry Coppodk, Esq. 
Swansea — Matthew Moggridge, Esq. 
Sydney, New S. Wales— W. M. Manning, Esq. 
Tavistock— Rev. W. Evans. 

John Rundle, Esq., M.P. 
Truro— Heury Sewell Stokes, Esq. 
Tunbridge Wells— Dr. Yeats. 
Uttoxeter — Robert Blurton, Esq. 
Virginia, U. 5.— Professor Tucker. 
Worcester— Clias. Hastings, M.D. 

C. H. Hebb, Esq. 
Wrexham— Thomas Ed g worth, Esq. 

Major Sir William Lloyd. 
Yarmouth— C. E. Rumbold, Esq. 

Dawson Turner, Esq. 
Fork— Rev. J. Renrkk, A.M. 

John Phillips, Esq., F.R£.. F.G.S. 



LOHDOHf WILLIAM CL0W18 A*D SONS, STAMFORD STBEBT. 



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INDEX TO VOL. XIV. 



^ 



Abinodoit, account of, page 388 
Adulteration of articles of consumption, 

Africau currency. 328 
Albatross, the, 24 
Allotment system, the, 87 
Amaionas, the forest desert of. 180 
American antiquities, 230, 242; forest, 

change* in the character of, 360 
Amulets. a33 

Ancient heremctical establishments, 427 
Ancient letters. ;*62 

Anglo-Saxon agriculture, 448; church 
and improvement of agriculture, 176 
Angouleme, French cultivation in, 160 
Animals, locomotion of, 12. 68. 140, 
188, 236; motion of, in taking their 
prey, 443 
Antelope hunting with the leopard, 436 
Apprenticeship, 48 
Armenian bread, 369 
Artifices employed by rude nations in 

hunting, 206, 218 
Assessing land, mode of, 248 
Astorga, the city of, account of. 321 
Atmospheric railways. 109, 117 
Australia, native marriages in, ?87 
Authorship, rapid and slow, 410 
Avalanches of the Alps, 43 
Avon, source of the, 259 
Bagdad, description of, 9 
Barat, ceremony of, described, 268' 
Harfreston Church, account of. 113 
Bayard, the Chevalier, 31, 45 
Bear-dancing at Rome, 49, 62 
Beauty, notions of personal, 475 
Belgian farm, notice of a, 176; shep- 
herd and his sheep, 280 
Benares, the city of, account of, 401 
Blark-lead pencil-making,.208 
Blind, anecdote of the. 376 
Bokhara, sports of, 43 
Brazil, the ants of, 436 
Bridgman, Laura, account of, 222, 230 
Xristol Cathedral, account of. 85 
British Valhalla, the, 33, 73, 181, 161, 
209, 249. 289. 337, 377, 417, 465, 501 
Buck- washing, 314 
Buffalo-bunting, 259 
Camel, character of the, 187 
Canofieno, the, or Roman-swing, 257 
Cnnta-storia, the, 457. 491 
Carlisle Cathedral, account of, 41 
Carrion-feeding hawks, 427 
Cassette de' Burattini, 108, 114; Folic! 

nella, Punch, 142 
Cat. singular propensity of a, 440 
Ceylonese canoes, 448 
Charlton House. Kent, acconnt of. 265 
Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. 65. 81, 1 10, 
118, 137, 146, 185. 235 241, 258, 300, 
310, 323. 361. 406, 437, 455, 461. 481, 
497; Poetry, 91 
Cheap and rapid communication, 394 
Chinese Battue m 1711, 88; filtering, 
376 ; fireworks, 59 ; gardening in 
1711, 64; ornithology, 104; stores 
and fuel, in 1711, 56; 'whale fishery, 
288 
Ciarlatauo, II. 145 
Cigar-manufactnre at Manilla, 368 



Cincinnati, pigs in, 312 

Cinnamon, 203 

Coal-fields, formation of, 440 

Cocoa Nut. tbc, in Ceylon, 100 

Coire. or cocoa-nut fibre. 276 

Commons, inclo.su re of, 347 

Conecte, Father Thorns*, acconnt of. 429 

Connection of the agreeable and the 

beautiful with the useful. 434 
Cookery, economical and scientific, 91 
Corn, trade in, 432 
Coryat, Tom. account of, 5, 14, 22 
Cunous mode of obtaining prey, 403 
Dkaekess, 151, 155 
Dismal Swamp, the great, 336 
Dorchester Church, account of, 372 
Donro, bathing in the, 464 
East Busham Hnll, account of, 245 
Kaster, on the calculation of, 3 
Economising water in rivers. 443 
Elephant, the, 136; combats, 96 
Employments, Division of, 246 
Enlargement of objects, 386 
Essays on the lives of rom-rkable pain- 
ters.— The scholars of Rafaelle, 28. 
44, 60 ; Correggio and Giorgione and 
their schools, 92, 105 ; Purmigiano, 
132; Giorgi'me. 204; Titian. 233, 
269; the Venetian painters of the 
sixteenth century, 308, 325 
Euphrates, hurricanes on the, 304 
Feigned diseases, 371 
Fisheries. 397 

Fishing, curious mode of, 208 
Fishponds, domestic, 486 
Fish-spearing on Lake Erie, 363 
FUx cultivation, 96 

Flowers, preservation of, for winter, 262 
Foundling hospitals, acconnt of, 345 
Footsteps, sagacity in tracking, 174 
French laundry, 268 ; stage, the, 271 , 278 
Fuller. Thomas, sketch of the life or, 

135.159,170, 177 
Funeral expenses, 336 
Furriery and fur-dressing, 390 
Galapaoos Archipelago, tamtness of 

birds in the, 443 
Galley slaves, 134 
Gascony, arresting the sands in, 91 
German proverbs, 398; Watchmen, 248 

inn in the sixteenth century, 495 
Gigantic Donkeys, 96 
Gloucester Cathedral, account of, 153 
Greek sailors, notice of, 200 ; town, in 

1832, 35S 
Guesses at troth, 240 
Haoue, the, description of, 433 
Halos, explanation of, 431 
Hedges, the value of, 268 
Hereford Cathedral, account of, I 
Herstmonceuux Castle, account of, 217 
Hill Hall, account of, 277 
Himalayan Provinces, bees in the, 240 
Holland in the fifteenth centnry, 16 
Hor#e, wild species of the, 414 ; memory 

and gratitude of the, 496 
Hudibras, 20, 57, 97, 129, 156, 220, 260, 

273 
i>ft.ey Church, accouut of, 332 
Indian farmers, 15 
Insects used as food, 191 



Intellect and Instinct, 152 

Italian Farming, 363 

Jackal, Cry of the, 183 

Japan Ware in Japan, 200 

Jedburgh Abbey, account of. 505 

Kamtschatka, Volcano in, 283 

Kangaroo, the, 183 

Kclao Abbey, account of, 357 

Kirkwall, Orkneys, account of. 393 

Knowledge, Objects of, 4 ; Progress of. 

Kordofan, the 6imale of. 59 [219 

Kroomen, the, 368 

Labovk, 24 

Ladakh, Terrace Cultivation in, 180 

Ladakh, Diet of the People of, 203; 

Beer iu, 227 
Landscape Painting, 438, 446 
Lectures at Lowell, and Moral Influ- 
ence of Lecturing, 315 
Letter-writing and intercourse, 399 
Lighting by Natural Gas, 320 
Llandaf Cathedral, account of,^28i 
Locust, Transformation of the.* 16 
Lombardy, Irrigation of, 376 
Lore of Natural Objects, the, 4-13 
Madder, the action of, in Colouring 

the Bones of Animals, 302 
Magclhaens Straits, Whirlwinds in, 195 
Magic Lantern at Home, 101 

Magician of Cairo, the, 198 

Manchester, Public Parks in, 268 

Manilla Cigar-ma king. 368 

Map Travelling, 29d 

Marine Glue, 330 

Markets of Central Asia, 64 

Mechanics' Institutes. 187 

Melbourne, Australia, account of, 139 

Mind, the. 264 

Misapplied Ingenuity, 306 

M iscellaneous Reading, 459 

Morra, the Game of. 193 

Moryson, Fynes, 462. 479. 483 

Mountain Echoes, 55 

Muscat dine, among Silkworms, 54, 61 

Nkoro Expresses, a60 

New Zealand Cookery, 268; Rata, the, 
200 

New South Wales, the Robin of, 43 

Nineveh, notice of, 264 

Nobles of the Olden Time. 91 

Nova Scotia. Agriculture in. 298 

Nuneham Courtnay, account of, 409 

Nutmeg, in the British Colonics, 47 

Ohio, Progress of, 304 

Old England. 4 

Oxford Cathedral, account of, 201 

Palestine and England, 144 

Patent Rolls, the, and King John. 359 

Patron and Client, 16 

Pedestrian, Privileges of the, 194 

Pemican, mode of preparing, 276 . 

Perra, the last look at, :£6 

Picture-dealing, 3 1 8 

Portugal, want of good Roads iu, 91 

Prangos. the, as Fodder, 195 

Public Credit, means of securing the, 19 

Public Improvements, 485, -.92, 498 

Purik, the. 219 

Quills, Manufacture of, 392 

Railway in America, 484 

Rain-makers, 183 



Recovering Debt*, curious modi of, 408 
Red Snow and Jtain, JIG 
Reptiles used n* food, 203 
Rice Paper, 139 
Kight and Left, 403 
Robbery in the Desert. 4 
Roman and Neapolitan horv»«, 374 
Roman family ou horseback. aC9 
Roman game of 1 a Riuzicn, 2*J.» 
Round Towers of Ireland, the, 436 
Russia, effects of cold in. JO 
Salerno, ploughing near. 32S 
Saltarello. II, 364 
Savings* Banks, 387 
Saxon architecture, 56 
Self denial. ,208 
Seville, Patios of. 283 
Singular aqueduct, 1 S3 
Sloth, the, notes upon, 169 
South Africa, scenery of, 43 
South American drought, 315 ; hail- 
storms, 392; horsemanship. 407 
Squatters lire, 131 

Spanish cigars, making of, 176; kit- 
chen, 10/ ; robbers and smugglers, 131 
Spontaneous combustion, 2^7 
Spurs, notices of, 95. 10*2 
St. Asaph Cathedral, account of. 313 
St Elmo's fire, 106 

St. Katherinc's Hospital, 177 

St. Paul's School, account or. 311 

Stanton Harcourt, account of. 404 % 

Stone Church, account of. 1^ 2 

Sturgeon fishery at Sefeed Rtwd, 4C0 

Sugar- making in Jamaica, 67 

Sumptuary laws, 326 

Surinam dinner party, 484 

Swill, character of, 227 

Swine, the habits of, 368 

Taiiakteila. the, 441, 450 

Tanks in India, magnitude of, 4C4 

Tarantula spider, the, 94. 101 

Tartar surgery, 67 

Thames, source of the, 425 

Training, physical effects of, 72 

Treasury records, 350 

Truths, 280 

Tschutkschi. dog of the, 335 

Turkey, fountains of* 29 

Tussac grass, 226* 

Utrecht, the city of, accouut of, 4^9 

Veruna, 4^7 

Vintage, returning from the, 412 

Waoks in the south of France, 131 

Water, supply of, iu American towns, 
70, S3: at Rome, 285; in Scotch 
towns, 7 

Western prairies, food in the, 288 

Whales mistaken for rocks, lfc.l 

Wicklif, the reformer, accouut of, 190 

Wild cattle, capture of, 376 

Will-o'the- Wisp, 266 

William with the Long Heard, 365 

Wine-making iu Portugal, 440 

Working man's Sabbath, the, 104 

Writing well, art of, 67 

Year of the Poets, IT, 25. 49, 89, 148, 
181, 196. 22S. 281. 316. 348. 369, 385 
• 396, 428, 444. 473, 489 

Zaraooxa, the city of. 353 

Zingari or Gipsies at Rome, 297 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



SUBJECT. PAOE. DSSIONXBS. ENGRAVERS. 

1 Hereford Cathedral 1 Brown. Jackson. 

2 Shrine of Ethelbert 2 

3 Portrait of Tom Coryat 5 

4 Bagdad, from a Sketch bv'Col. Chosney 5 

5 Figure of Snail . ....... 12 

6 Spider H ,, „ 

7 Ctenophom ...... 13 „ „ 

8 Footof Houso-fly 13 ,. ,. 

9 Bibio febrilis 13 „ 

10 Figure of Caterpillar , 13 „ 

11 The Seasons 17 Harvey. 

12 Apollo 19 „ Folkard. 

13 Hudibras and Sidroplicl 20 ., Jackson. 

14 Tom Coryat on his Elephant .... 



Thome. 
Harvev. 
Fusseli. 



Thome. 



SUBJECT. page. 

15 Time 25 

16 " Proud -pied April" 27 

17 Giulio Romano, and group from a picture 28 

18 Figure from G. Romano 29 

19 Design from Spenser's " Faerie Queen" • 33 

20 The two Knights reading " Briton's 

Monument" ........ 40 

21 Carlisle Cathedral, from the North . . 4l 

22 Gable of East end of ditto 41 

23 Window of Choir of ditto 41 

24 Portrait and Specimen of Primaticcio . 44 

25 The Rape of the Sabines, by Polidori . 45 

26 Spring-Flowers 4 9 

27 Dancing- Bear of Roma, from Pinelli . 52 



BE8I0VKRJ. 

Harvey. 



Brown. 



Harvey. 



Porter. 



ENGRAVERS. 

Jacksou. 

H.'ciarke. 

Jackson. 



Clarke. 
Jackson. 






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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



SUBJECT. *AOI. DMtOWlM. XWOBAVKRS 

28 Combat of Hudibras and Sidrophel . . 57 Harvev. Hampton. 

29 Garofalo, and specimen 60 ., Clarke.' 

30 St. Catherine, from Tiboldi .... CI ., „ 

31 Bearward, from Hogarth ..... 64 Fairholt. Sears. 

32 Combat of Palamotyand Arcite— Pala- 

mon in the Temple of Mara— Arcite in 

the Temple of Venn* 65 Harvey. 

83 The Three Captive Qneena .... 67 n 

34 Figure* illustrative of Swimming . .68-70 Ptueell. 

35 Paulinas before Edwin . . • . • 73 Harvey. 

36 Cold the Druid attackiug the Idols • . 80 „ 

37 Palamon and Arcite ...... 81 „ 

38 Bristol Cathedral, from the North . . 85 Brown. 

39 Gateway of tbe Monastery .... 86 Pairholt. 

40 ** Lusty Spring," from Spenser » . . • 89 Harvey. 

41 Cor reggio. and copy of his St. John • • 92 „ 

42 Ancieut Spurs, four figures .... 95 Wells. 

43 Hudibras and the Goblins. ..... 97 Harvey. 

44 II Lantern*. Magka, from Pinelli . . 101 Porter. 

45 Ancient Spurs, eight figures .... 103 Wells. 

46 Madonna and Child, after Correggio . 105 Harvey. 

47 Cassettade' Burairini, from Pinelli . . 108 Porter.' 

48 The Combat Interrupted 112 Harvey. 

49 Barfreston Church, from the south-east . 1 13 B. Sly. 

50 Doorway of Barfreston Church . . . 114 * „ 

51 Sections of Atmospheric Railway . • 117 Stanesby. 

52 Death of Arcite 120 Harvey. 

53 Alfred as a Harper in tbe Danish Camp, 

and his meeting with Asser ... 121 ,. 

54 Alfred reading to his Mother .... 128 „ 
56 Ralpho rescuing the Knight .... 129 

56 Parmigiano 132 „ 

57 Moses breaking the Tables .... 133 ., 
56 Death of the Perjured Knight; Con- 
stance and hersou ; and the Pilgrim . 137 ,, 

59 Stag-hunt— Swimming 140 Pussell. 

60 Grebe-Petrel 140 B. Sly. 

61 Poot of Grebe 140 ,. 

62 Eider Duck 141 

63 Parakeet Auk 141 

64 Gurnard 141 Fussell. 

65 Pish Swimming, diagram of .... 142 » 

66 Tail of Shark 142 

67 II Ciarlatano, from Pinelli .... 145 Porter. 

68 Cuckoo and Hedge Sparrow ... . 148 S. Sly. 

69 Group of Birds 149 Anelay. 

70 Gloucester Cathedral 153 Brown. 

71 Effigy of Edward II 154 Fairholt. 

72 •• Poor Presbyter"— Field preaching . 156 Harvey. 

73 •« An Independent" 157 „ 

74 Canute on the River at Ely— Reproving 

his flatterers— De^poriting his Crown . 161 „ 

75 Canute on his pilgrimage to Rome . . 168 

76 Sloth, in the Zoological Gardens . . 169 

77 Stone Church, from the north-east . . 172 L. Jewitt. 

78 Doorway of ditto . 173 

79 Interior of ditto 173 B. Sly. 

80 St. Ijtherine's Hospital, Regent's Park 177 Anelay.' 

81 Spring Holidays 181 Harvey. 

82 The Knight solving the IRiddle ; the 

Knight on his Travels; andthe"01de 

Wife- 185 

83KalongBat * . 183 Freeman. 

84 Flying Squirrel ....«..'. 188 B. Sly. 

85 The Great Ibijau • 189 Freeman. 

86 The Hnnuninp-Bird' 190 „ 

87 The Game of Mom, from Pinelli . . 193 Porter. 

88 May, after Spencer 196 Harvey. 

89 The Magician Abdal-Kader .... 200 Gilbert. 

90 Interior of Oxford Cathedral . ... 201 Brown. 

91 Shrine of St. Frideswide 202 Thompson. 

92 Giorgione S04 Harvey. 

93 Concert Champetre . 305 „ 

94 Rounding-machine for Pencil-making . 208 B. Sly. 

95 Burial of William the Conqueror . . 209 Harvey. 

96 Burial of Harold 216 „ 

97 Herstmoneeaux Castle 217 Thome. 

93 The Saints alarmed ,\ 220 Harvey. 

99 The Saint* dispersing 221 >» 

100 II Giuoco alia Ruzsica, from Pinelli . 225 Porter. 

101 Queen of the May 228 Harvcv. 

102 May-pole before St. Andrew Undershaft 229 Fairholt. 
108 Titian, and Group from Venus and Adonis 233 Harvey. 

104 Flying-Fish 236 B. Sly. 

105 Various forms of Insects' Wings ... 236 ., 

106 House-Fly and Blue-bottle Ply . . . 237 „ 

107 Butterflies 237 

108 Moths 238 „ 

109 Dragon Plies 238 .. 

110 Bee 238 „ 

111 The Snmpnour and the Fiend ... 241 Harvey. 

112 East Basham Hall , . . 245 Thurne.; 

113 Marriage of Henry I., and Wreck of the 

Blanche Nef 249 Harvey. 

114 Battle of the Standard 256 

115 The Canofieno. from Pinelli . ... 257 Porter. 

1 16 Hudibras consulting the Lawyer . • • 260 Harvey. 

117 Wolf, Fox. and Lambs 261 

118 Charlton House 265 Thome. 

119 St. Sebastian 269 Harvey. 

120 Hudibras writing the Letter .... 273 

121 The Lady reading the Letter .... 276 „ 



Jackson. 



T. Williams. 

Jackson. 

Sears. 

Jackson. 

Clarke. 

Nugent. 

Jackson. 

wSch. 

Clarke. 

Jackson. 

Folkard. 

Nugent. 

Sears. 

Sly. 

Jackson. 



Hampton. 
Clarke. 



Jackson. 

Sears. 

Hollowav. 

Williams'. 

Wall. 

Jackson. 



Smith. 

Green. 

Jackson. 

Sly. 

Jackson. 

Hampton. 

Jackson. 



Senrs. 
Nugent. 
Welch. 
Jackson. 



Burrows.' 

Hollo way. 

Sears. 

Williams. 

Jackson. 

' »t 

Sears. 

Jackson. 

Sears. 

Clarke, 

HorneT. 

Jackson. 



Hampton. 
Jackson. 

Whitby. 
Clarke. 
Slader. 
Scars. 

Slader. 
Holloway. 
F. Smith. 
Slader. 
Jackson. 



Clarke. 
Jackson. 



SUBJECT, a 

122 Hill-Hall V " . . 

123 Summer, after Spenser ..... 

124 Llandaf Cathedral 

125 The Bishop of Exeter supplicating Arch- 

bishop Becket, at Northampton, to 
submit to the King ; with the friend- 
ship of the King and Becket, and the 
reconciliation at Montmirail . . • 

126 Murder of Becket 

127 Zingari, from Pinelli 

128 GrUelda as a Peasant, ns a Marchioness, 

and Restored to her Family • • • 

129 Jedburgh Abbey 

130 Tintoretto, and group from a Picture 

131 St. Pauls School 

132 The Cathedral of St. Asaph ; . . . . 

133 The Oak 

134 The Beech 

135 The Forest 

136 Astorga 

137 Portrait of Paul Veronese 

138 Figure from the Picture of St. Longius . 

139 Famiglia a Cavallo, from Pinelli . . 

140 Interior of Iffley Church 

141 Font in Iffley Church 

142 Richard viewing Jerusalem; Richard and 

Philip ; and Crusader and Pilgrim . . 

143 Richard in Battle 

144 Chapel of the Foundling Hospital . . 

145 Night aud Morning 

146 Sleep 

147 Leathern Pouch 

148 Skippet 

149 Hanaper 

150 Marks upon Treasury Documents . . 

151 Zaragoxa • 

152 Kelso Abbey 

153 The Hone of Brass/ the Knight unarmed, 

and Canace and the Hawk .... 

154 Method of Sealing an Ancient Letter . 

155 11 Saltarello, from Pinelli 

156 Autumn 

157 Dorchester Church 

158. Edward killing the Assassin, and suffer- 
ing from the poisoned wound • . . 

159 Signing the Truce 

160 The Hock-Cart 

161 View of Abingdon 

162 St. Nicholas Church. Abingdon . . . 

163 St. Magnus' Cathedral, Kirkwall . . 

164 The Full Moon 

165 The Crescent Moon 

166 Benares 

167 Stanton Harcourt Church 

168 Nuneham Court nay 

169 Return from the Vintage, from Pinelli . 

170 Barons taking the Oath on the altar at 

Bury ; and Cardinal Langton showiug 
the Charter at Su Paul's .... 

171 Signing of Magna Charta at Runnymede 

172 Source of the Thames at Seven Springs 

173 Storm at Sea 

174 Will o'-the- Wisp 

175 Remarkable Halos . 

176 The Vyverberg. with the Binnenhof . 

177 Dorigen on the sea-shore — Aurelias suing 

to Dorigen— and Dorigen relating her 
promise to Arviragus 

178 The Tarentella 

179 Deer and Hares 

180 Falcon and Partridge 

181 Utrecht, with the Cathedral .... 

182 Corn Exchange, Mark Lane .... 

183 Canta S tori a, from Pinelli 

184 Rioters in the Tavern — Rioters meeting 

the old Man — Rioters drinking the 
Poison 

185 Countess de Montfort viewing the ap- 

proach of the English succours ; exhi- 
biting her young son ; and saluting Sir 
Walter Manny after his sortie . • . 

186 The Passage of the Somme .... 

187 Winter, personified from Spenser • . 

188 Verona, from the Adige 

189 Amphitheatre, at Verona . . . . . 

190 The Cock and the Fox— The Poultry 

Yard— The Chase 

191 Houses in Freeman's Place .... 

192 Mummers 

193 Minstrels 

194 New Buildings, Leicester Square . . 

195 Villa. Kensington . • 

196 The Canon announcing his secret to the 

Priest— the Canon Mining the Cru- 
cible — the Canon showing the Ingot • 

197 Theatre, Manchester 

198 Commercial School, Manchester . . . 

199 The Black Prince entertaining his pri- 

soner — Riding with his prisoner 
through London — Henry V. defend- 
ing Clarence at A xi neon it .... 

200 Field of Azincourt 



TAOV. DBSTOriftS. KKORAVtll 

277 Thome. Jackson,. 

281 Harvey.' 

284 Browne. , „ 



289 Harvey. 


m 


296 


m 


297 Porter. , 


.. 


300 Harvey. 




305 Brown. 




308 Harvey. 


Clarke. 


312 Wells. 


Hoi tawny. 


313 Brown. 


Jackson. 


316 Harvey. 


Whimper. 


316 ,. 


Jacksuo. 


317 „ 


Gray- 
Holloway. 


321 Fairholt. 


325 Harvey. 
325 „ 
329 Porter. 


Clarke. 


Jackson. 


332 Brown. 




333 Jewitt. 


Sears. 


337 Harvey. 


Jack son. 


346 .. 




345 Tiffin. 




348 Harrey. 


Grav. 


349 .. 


9 


350 Cole. 


Jackson. 


351 „ 




351 „ i 




351 .. 


, 


353 Brown. 


T. William* 


357 „ 


Jackson. 




Jackson nnd 


361 Harvev. 
363 Pairholt. 


Clarke. 


Sly. 


364 Porter. 


Jackson 


369 Harvey. 


m and Clarke. 


372 Thome. 


Jackson. 


377 Harvey. 


-, (i 


384 .. 




385 




388 Thome. 


v 


389 h 


M 


393 Browne. 




396 Harvey. 


Evans. 


397 .. 


Folkard. 


401 Shepherd. 


Holloway 


404 Thome. 


Jackson. 


409 I •„ 


•• 


413 Porter. ; 


t» 


417 Harvey. 


•» 


424 


tt 


425 Thome. ' 


•* 


428 Harvey. 


Whimper. 


429 „ 


Jackson. 


432 B.Sly. 


Williams. 


433 Fairholt. 


Slader. 




Jackson and 


437 Harvey. 


Clarke. 


441 Rowlatt. 


Jackson. 


444 Harvey. 


Gray. . 


446 *• 


M 


449 Pairholt. 


Sly. 


452 Tiffin. 


Jackson. 


467 Porter. 


f» 




Jackson and 


461 Harvey. 


Clarke, 


465 „ 


Jackson. 


472 .. 


•» 


473 .. 


N 


477 Sargent 


„ 


478 Melville. 


Sly. 


481 Harvey. 


Jackson. 


485 B.Sly. 
439 . Harvey. 


Whimper. 


491 Fairholt. 


Sly. 


493 Jewitt. 


Sears. 


494 B.Sly. 


Welch. 




Jackson and 


497 Harvey. 


Clarke. 


499 Wells. 


Palling. 


500 B.Sly. 


Crowe. 


501 Harvey. 


Jackson. 


606 n 


Gray. 



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[Hereford Cathedral.] 



HEREFORD CATHEDRAL. 



Hereford Cathedral is situated on the south side of 
the city of Hereford, not far from the river Wye. Like 
most of our cathedrals and great abbeys, it has been 
erected at successive times and in different styles of 
architecture. It consists of a nave and choir, with 
aisles to each, a central transept with a tower above the 
intersection, a smaller transept to the east, and a Lady- 
Chapel, which forms the east end of the Cathedral. 
There was also a tower at the west end, but on Easter 
Monday, 1786, it fell down, and not only crushed the 
west front beneath it, but broke down a considerable 
part of the adjoining nave. The west end was rebuilt 
by Wyatt, in a style unlike the previous architecture, 
little m accordance with the rest of the structure, and 
little creditable to himself as an architect. The 
western tower has not been rebuilt, and the nave has 
been deprived of fifteen feet of its length. A better 
taste has, however, prevailed in the more recent alter- 
ations. 

The former west front, eighty feet wide, was early 
Norman work. Several series of small columns, sup- 
porting semicircular intersecting arches, extended 
horizontally over the whole front, each series being 
divided from those above and below by a different 
moulding— billet, embattled, fret* nail-head, and zig- 
zag. The columns, base, shaft, and capital, were plain, 
but some of the arches were ornamented with the nail- 
head and zig-zag, which also gave richness of decora- 
tion to other parts of the front. The entrance was 
under a semicircular arch supported by five plain 
columns on each side, which were successively reduced 
to produce an effect of perspective. The windqap had 
semicircular arches, and were nearly as wide as they 
were high. The western tower was of pointed archi- 

no. 819. 



tecture, and rose to the height of a hundred and thirty 
feet from the ground. 

At the time of the rebuilding of the west front other 
alterations were made : a spire, formed of timber, but 
cased with lead, rose to the height of ninety-two feet 
from the top of the central tower ; this spire was taken 
down to relieve the tower from its weight, and an ap- 
pearance of additional height was given to the tower by 
flattening the angle of the roofs of the nave and central 
transept, the battlements were raised somewhat higher, 
and crocketed pinnacles were added at the corners. 
The central tower is one hundred and thirty-eight feet 
high to the bottom of the battlements, so that the entire 
height to the top of this spire was two hundred and 
thirty feet. 

The central tower is square and exceedingly massive. 
It is ornamented with a profusion of nail-head or bulb 
ornaments, besides the triangular fret and zig-zag, all 
of early character, but arranged in the pointed style, 
each side of the tower having two ranges of lancet- 
formed windows, four in each range. 

The present western entrance to the nave is beneath 
an obtuse-angled arch, over which is an embattled 

¥arapet flanked by two small crocketed pinnacles. 
here is a smaller door of entrance to each aisle be- 
neath an arch similar to that of the entrance to the 
nave. The great western window is divided by mul- 
lions into six principal lights under cinquefoil arches. 
The head of the window consists of a cinquefoil circle 
at top and two quatrefoil circles below, the spaces be- 
neath terminating in trefoil arches. 

The nave is divided from the aisles by a double 
range of exceedingly thick and plain round columns, 
which support highly decorated semicircular arches, 
above which, on each side, is a row of arcades with 
pointed arches. 

Vol. XIV.— B 



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The moat beautiful portion of the whole structure is 
undoubtedly the Lady-Chapel at the east end, now 
converted into a library. Bold angular buttresses rise 
from massy bases, and numerous large mouldings run 
round the walls : the end is an embattled pediment. 
The windows are tall and lancet-shaped, separated from 
each other by clusters of small columns receding per- 
spectively, and supporting arches with foliage and open- 
work of singular lightness and elegance. Pointed 
arcades and lozenge-shaped panels give fullness of 
ornament to the whole of the exterior. Both without 
and within this Lady-Chapel is distinguished by simpli- 
city of outline and beauty and richness of detail. 

A small chapel, built by Bishop Audley about 1496, 
projects on the south side of the Lady-Chapel. There 
is a double entrance-porch, of beautiful architecture on 
the north side of the Cathedral. 

The choir has fifty stalls under ornamented Gothic 
canopies of wood painted in imitation of stone. Under 
the seats of the stalls various figures and devices are 
carved in wood, most of which are grotesque and ludi- 
crous. 

The entire length of the cathedral is 335 feet ; the 
entire width is 174 feet. The nave is 126 feet long, 
and 70 feet high from the floor to the vaulting, or 
90 feet to the roof; the width of the nave and aisles 
is 68 feet ; the length of the choir is 96 feet. 

The Bishop's Cloisters, as they are called, on the 
south side of the nave, consist at present of only two 
covered walks. The west walk was removed to make 
room for a brick building appropriated to the gram- 
mar-school, and the north side, next the Cathedral, 
seems never to have had a walk. 

There are several monuments of high antiquity in 
Hereford Cathedral, especially of the higher clergy, 
though many were destroyed at the Reformation and 
by the Puritans. One of the most interesting is that of 
Bishop Cantcloupe, in the east aisle of the central north 
transept. The foliated arches and capitals of the 
columns are admirably executed, as well as the armed 
figures and the animals under their feet. The ma- 
terial seems to be Purbeck marble, but it has been 
coated with white paint. Another interesting monu- 
ment, attributed to Humphrey dc Bohun, earl of Here- 
ford, consists of an effigy in armour recumbent on a 
ledge in a square recess in the north wall of the Lady- 
Chapel. It is surmounted in front by an architectural 
Gothic canopy or screen of exceedingly beautiful design 
and execution. 

A pyx, or portable shrine, of ereat antiquity and 
very curious workmanship, formerly stood on the high 
altar, and was venerated as the shrine of Ethelbert, 



[Shrine of Ethelbert] 

king of the East Angles. It is still in existence, but 



not in the Cathedral. 1 1 is eight and a half inches high, 
seven inches long, and three and a half inches wide. 
It is formed of oak, and covered with copper highly 
ornamented with gilding and enamel. The figures are 
engraved, but the heads are in relief. These portable 
shrines were the work of Greek artists, who, having 
migrated from Constantinople to Rome, were induced 
by Bishop Ware to visit England in the reign of 
Henry III. They engraved and enamelled pyxes, 
chalices for the altar, and covered cups for banquets. 
Pietro Cavallini, who executed the shrine of Edward 
the Confessor and the tomb of Henry III. in West- 
minster Abbey, was then settled in England. The 
portable shrines were carried in processions on the 
anniversary of the saint for whom they were made. 

Hereford is stated to have had a large church, 
chiefly however of wood, as early as 750, in the reign 
of Ofta, king of Mercia. Offa invited Ethelbert, king 
of the East Angles, to his court at Sutton Walls, near 
Hereford, caused him to be murdered there, and 
usurped his kingdom. The body of Ethelbert was 
interred in the church at Hereford ; and so numerous 
were the miracles stated to be performed over his 
grave, that Offa himself became repentant, and, to ex- 
press his remorse and palliate his guilt, went on a pil- 
grimage to Rome, subjected his kingdom to the pay- 
ment of Peter's Pence, built a magnificent tomb over 
the body of Ethelbert, and bestowed a tenth of all his 
possessions on the church, which afterwards rapidly 
increased its wealth and extended its reputation for 
sanctity. In the reign of Egbert, about the year 825, 
a new church of stone was erected in the place of the 
former one of wood. In about two hundred years, 
however, this church was so much decayed that Bishop 
Athelstan, who was appointed to the see in 1012, 
rebuilt the whole, probably about 1030. 

In the year 1055 a large army of Welsh, headed by 
Gryffyth, a prince of Wales, and Al^ar, earl of Chester, 
attacked the city of Hereford, which they plundered 
and laid in ruins. The Cathedral was burnt and de- 
molished, and continned in that state till 1079, when 
Robert de Lozinga, having been appointed bishop by 
William the Conqueror, commenced a new structure, 
which was completed by Bishop Raynelm, who suc- 
ceeded Lozinga in 1107. This forms the body of the 
present church. The central tower was built by Bishop 
Braos, whose bishopric extended from 1200 to 1216. 
It is presumed that the tower at the west end, which 
from its style of architecture is supposed to have been 
erected in the reign of Edward III., formed no part 
of the original design, nor was the extent of the 
ground-plan precisely the same as that of the previous 
church ; for Silas Taylor, in his researches about 1650, 
found "beyond the lines of the present building, and 
particularly towards the east, near the cloisters of the 
college, such stupendous foundations, such capitals 
and pedestals and well-wrought bases and arches, and 
such rare engravings and mouldings." as left little 
doubt that they were the foundations and ruins of the 
church which was destroyed by the Welsh in 1055. 

The net yearly revenue of the Bishop of Hereford is 
4200/. The corporation of the Cathedral is composed 
of a dean and five residentiary prebendaries, whose 
average net revenue amounts to 3247/. There are also 
twenty-two other prebendaries not residentiary. There 
is a college of twelve vicars choral, who have rooms 
allotted to them in the college, a gloomy building at 
the east end of the Cathedral. The dean and the 
bishop's prebendary alone have houses belonging to 
their dignitaries, in which they reside, atid which Uiey 
are lQund to keep in repair. 



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1845.] 



THE PENNY MAGAZINE. 



ON THE CALCULATION OF EASTER. 

The year 1845 is one of those remarkable years in 
which, to all appearance, the Calendar is wrong : and 
in which the British version of it certainly contradicts 
itself. If, say the instructions given in the prayer-books 
to find Easter, the full moon that comes next tfter the 
21st of March fall upon a Sunday, Easter Sunday shall 
not be that Sunday, out the one after it. Now in 1845, 
the full moon that comes next after the 21st of March is 
on Sunday the 23rd, at some minutes past eight in the 
evening: and yet that same Sunday the 23rd is Easter 
Sunday, though according to the rules laid down it should 
be Sunday the 30th. 

In looking at the explanations of the Calendar which 
are accessible to readers in general, we do not find one 
which combines a description of what is astronomical 
with a proper indication of what is matter of conven- 
tion : and we need hardly tell our readers that the 
definition laid down in the act of parliament is adopted 
in every book published in Britain, and is the one in- 
serted in the prayer-books of the Established Church. 
When astronomers write about the Calendar, they 
blame its complexity, and what they call its astrono- 
mical errors; and they very frequently mistake its 
construction : when theologians, who are not astrono- 
mers, do the same, they treat the Calendar with a 
degree of respect, as an astronomical production, which 
it does not deserve; or else, if informed of its de- 
partures from astronomical correctness, they treat those 
departures as errors to be deplored and corrected. 

The subject having recently caused some public 
discussion, we extract the following summary from 
a long and able article on the ' Ecclesiastical Calendar* 
in the 'Companion to the Almanac for 1845,* by Mr. 
A. De Morgan, which sufficiently explains the apparent 
discrepancy. 

1 . The law which regulates Easter in Great Britain 
declares that whenever the full moon on or next after 
March 21 falls on a Sunday, that Sunday is not Easter 
Sunday, but the next: it also prescribes rules for de- 
termining Easter. 

2. In defiance of the precept, though in accordance 
with the rules, the Easter Sunday of 1845 is on the 
very day of the full moon next following March 21 . 

3. One part of the reason of this is, that the British 
legislature misunderstood the definition of Easter, used 
in the rules which they adopted, thinking that it de- 
pended upon the full moon, whereas it depends upon the 

fourteenth day of the moon, the day of new moon being 
counted as the first. Now full moon never happens 
before the fifteenth day of this reckoning. 

4. The other part of the reason of this discrepancy 
is, that the legislature supposed the moon of the calen- 
dar to be the same as the moon of the heavens, which 
neither is nor was intended to be the case : the moon 
of the calendar being not only made to vary from the 
moon of the heavens for convenience of calculation, 
but also to prevent Easter Day from falling on the day 
of the Jewish Passover. 

5. These two errors very often compensate one 
another, for though the fourteenth day is very often a 
day behind the calendar full moon, yet the calendar 
moon is also very often a day before the real moon, so 
that the fourteenth day of the calendar moon is fre- 
quently the day of the real full moon. But they do 
not always do so; and it should never be matter of 
surprise if Easter fall on the Sunday of the full moon, 
whether real or calendar. 

6. It is not correct to say that Easter is made to 
fall wrongly in 1845: it falb where the legislators, who 
correctly copied the rule^f the Roman Church, in- 
tended it should fall, though they did not correctly 
give the explanation of the rule they intended to use. 



The last time that Easter Sunday fell on the day of 
the full moon was in 1818, in which year both the fes- 
tival and the full moon were on the 22nd of March, the 
earliest possible day. It excited some stir that the 
definition of Easter, as contained in the Act, should so 
palpably be violated, and an Oxford clergyman pub- 
licly protested against the observance of Easter on the, 
as he thought it, wrong day. More than one writer 
discussed the matter on the supposition that the parlia- 
mentary definition was correct, and also that the 
extreme of astronomical correctness had been always 
sought after and considered essential to the due obser- 
vance of the day. No person who had ever examined 
the volume of Clavius, the only authority on the subject, 
appears to have taken any part in the discussion. It 
seems even to have been supposed that the proceed- 
ings of the courts of law might possibly be called in 
question, since an error in Easter would occasion a 
corresponding error in the commencement of Easter 
term. A lawyer would no doubt answer that a positive 
enacted rule is law, even though the grounds of that 
rule were incorrectly stated, or though there were no 
grounds at alL But it is desirable that those who like 
discussions upon this and similar subjects should not 
be allowed, in mere ignorance of existing facts, and 
without any opportunity of knowing what they are 
doing, to agitate for the reconsideration of what with 
all its defects is ifixed rule, the thing most wanted. 

The advantages of the present system are as fol- 
lows : — 

1. There is a fixed rule which prevails throughout 
the Roman, English, and Scottish churches, and from 
which the remaining Protestant churches vary but little. 

2. The general desire of the Christian world, namely, 
to make Easter an anniversary of the last days of 
Christ, is substantially satisfied, since it always must 
come close upon the full moon which comes next after 
the vernal equinox. No one can know how Easter 
is kept without attending to the chronological con- 
nexion of the death of Christ with the Passover, and 
of the resurrection with the first day of the week fol- 
lowing. 

3. All necessary warning against the mere obser- 
vance of days for the sake of the days is given by the 
very nature of the rule which determines Easter, when 
known. There is no answer to any manifestation of 
superstitious feeling on the subject which can be so 
good as a reference to Calvius putting the, moon back- 
wards or forwards a day to suit convenience of calcu- 
lation. 

The disadvantages of any alteration of the rule will 
be as follows : — 

1. The advantages stated in the first and third rea- 
sons preceding are destroyed, and the contrary disad- 
vantages introduced. 

2. Unless astronomical tables could be rendered 
absolutely perfect, there must be, as Calvius remarks, 
the substitution of a fictitious for a real moon. 

3. Any change must introduce an inconvenient 
schism, since it is certain that all Roman Catholics 
must adhere to the present system. It is hardly to 
be supposed that the papal see will acquiesce in any 
alteration. 

4. An astronomical Easter is impossible, unless the 
festival be sometimes kept on one day on the east of 
a varial?le meridian, and on another day on the west ; 
the difference being a week. It might happen, for 
instance, that those on one side of the meridian of 
London should have to keep Easter a Sunday after 
those on the other side : nay, astronomical tables are 
exact enough to jpake it possible that a true astrono- 
mical Easter, according to a definition drawn from 
the real moon, should be observed on one Sunday in 
St. Paul's, and on another in Westminster Abbey ; and 

B 2 



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is astronomy advances, it is perfectly conceivable that 
the true astronomical Easter should be one Sunday or 
another in St. Paul's only, according as it is to be 
solemnized at on a end or other of the building. 

As we are satisfied that there are persons who 
really have a lurking religious veneration for the cere- 
monial part of Easter, and for the apparently astrono- 
mical definition from which it is drawn, we will de- 
monstrate the assertion about Westminster Abbey and 
St. Paul's. 

The difference of longitude of the two cathedrals is 
about seven seconds, say six to make Bure of the argu- 
ment ; that is, the clock of St. Paul's, the more east- 
ward of the two, ought to be more than six seconds 
faster than that of the Abbey. Hence 8unday morning 
begins at St. Paul's six seconds before it begins at 
Westminster Abbey. Now suppose Easter regulated 
strictly by the paschal full moon, as implied in the Act 
of Parliament, and suppose that on a Saturday even- 
ing (at the Abbey) the paschal full moon happens at 
three seconds before midnight Then at St. Paul's it 
will happen three seconds after midnight, on Sunday 
morning. That is, the Sunday just named is the next 
after the paschal full moon at the Abbey, and is 
Easter Sunday. But at St. Paul's the paschal full 
moon falls on the Sunday, and Easter Sunday is the 
next Sunday. 

But it will be said this is trifling with the subject ; 
nobody means to stand out about a few seconds. We 
answer, that whoever gives up a few seconds gives up 
the principle on which the discussion to which we 
have alluded was raised, and adopts that of Clavius, 
namely, that perfect astronomical accuracy must at 
some point give way to convenience. Again, in the 
time of Clavius, from the less amount of accuracy then 
existing, there was as little disposition to stand out 
about a day as there now is about six seconds ; the time 
will come when more will be thought, astronomically, 
of the tenth part of a second than now of six seconds. 
If it were granted that the astronomical definition 
should be used, without minding four hours, still 
Easter cannot be always kept on the same Sunday in 
Calcutta and London, or in Montreal and London; 
carry the love of astronomical truth so far as not to 
reject ten minutes, and Exeter and London cannot 
always keep Easter on the same Sunday. 

5. It can only happen very rarely tfiat Easter is a 
perfect anniversary ot the events which it commemo- 
Tates. The Passover (fourteenth of the moon) took 
place on Thursday evening, the Crucifixion on Friday, 
the Resurrection on Sunday. The observance of the 
Friday and Sunday is properly anniversary, but it only 
happens now and then that the fourteenth of the moon 
is on Thursday. Since, then, in the nature of things, 
the moon's appearance can but seldom lead to a true 
recurrence of the chronological character of the cir- 
cumstances commemorated, it matters little that the 
connexion of the moon with Easter, arbitrary as it 
must be in some respects, should be a little more arbi- 
trary still. 

6. Every alteration of the calendar is an additional 
trouble and risk of error in questions of history ; the 
Gregorian reformation has done much in this way, 
another attempt would go near to render the chro- 
nology of the country in which it was made an un- 
fathomable mystery. 

There is but one reformation of the British calendar 
which we should wish to see. It is not desirable that 
a statute should exist which contains a complete mis- 
understanding of its own provisions, however little the 
legal force of those provisions may4e thereby affected. 
A short act of parliament, repealing the words about 
the full moon in 24 Geo. II. cap. 23, and substituting 
a definition which should not lead to mistake, would be 



of service; it being remembered that the erroneous 
words are not merely buried in the statute-book, but 
are directed to be attached to all the prayer-books 
used in the service of the Established Church. 



Object* of Knowledge. — The object of the general diffusion of 
knowledge is not to render men discontented with their lot — to 
make the peasant yearn to become an artisan, or the artisan 
dream of the honours and riches of a profession — but to give the 
means of content to those who, for the most part, must necessa- 
rily remain in that station which requires great self-denial and 
great endurance ; but which is capable of becoming not only a 
condition of comfort, but of enjoyment, through the exercise uf 
these very virtues, in connection with a desire for that improve- 
ment of the understanding which, to a large extent, is inde- 
pendent of rank and riches. It is a most fortunate circumstance, 
and one which seems especially ordained by Him who wills the 
happiness of his creatures, that the highest, and the purest, and 
the most lasting sources of enjoyment are the most accessible to 
all. The great distinction that has hitherto prevailed in the 
world is this — that those who have the command of riches and of 
leisure have alone been able, in any considerable degree, to cul- 
tivate the tastes that open these common sources of enjoyment. 
The first desire of every man is, no doubt, to secure a sufficiency 
for the supply of the physical necessities of our nature; but in 
the equal dispensations of Providence it is not any especial por- 
tion of the state even of the humblest among us who labours with 
his hands to earn his daily bread, that his mind should be shut 
out from the gratifications which belong to the exercise of our 
observing and reflecting faculties. In this exercise all men may 
be, to a certain extent, equal. — rViUiatn Caxton : a Biography, 
by Charles Knight. 

Old England. — When King Henry the Eighth (a.d. 1548), 
made his progress to York, Dr. Tonstall, Bishop of Durham, 
then attending on him, shewed the king a valley (being then 
some few miles north of Doncaster), which the bishop avowed to 
be the richest that ever be found in all his travels through 
Europe. For within ten miles of Hasselwood, the seat of the 
Vavasours, there were 165 manor houses of lords, knights, and 
gentlemen of the best quality ; 276 several woods, whereof some 
of them contain five hundred acres ; 32 parks, and two chases of 
deer; 120 rivers and brooks, whereof five were navigable, well 
stored with salmon and other fish; 76 water mills, for the grind- 
ing of com on the aforesaid rivers; 25 coal mines, which yield 
an abundance of fuel for the whole country ; three forges for the 
making of iron, and stone enough for the same. And within 
the same limits as much sport and pleasure fir hunting, hawking, 
fishing, and fowling, as in any place of England besides. — Ful- 
ler $ Worthies. 

Robbery in the Desert. — Shortly before my arrival at Jerusa- 
lem, a Mr. G., an English traveller, had joined himself to one 
of these pilgrimages to the Jordan for the sake of security, as well 
as of curiosity. When about half-way to Jericho, he liappeued. 
to linger behind the caravan, and was cantering along the lonely 
road to overtake it. Suddenly his horse was checked by a re- 
sistless grasp, and himself thrown to the ground. The moment 
before there was no liviug creature visible in that wild gleu ; now, 
on recovering from the shock, he saw an Arab bending over him, 
with his snear pointing to his bosom ; two other Bedouins stood 
by, and his horse had disappeared. Not understanding the me- 
nacing injunction to lie still, he tried to rise, and was instantly 
pinned to the ground by the Arab's lance. Seeing that resist- 
ance was hopeless, he submitted to his fate, and the two Bedouins 
approached with the request, "Cousin, undress, thy aunt is 
without a garment/ 1 This is the usual form in the desert, iu 
whose slang the word "aunt" seems to figure somewhat of the 
same capacity that " uncle" does iu ours ; but the " balls" 
are in lead, not brass. As Mr. G. displayed considerable reluc- 
tance in assisting the wants of his unknown relative, the Bedouins 
stripped him with wonderful despatch. They soon left him in 
a state of utter nudity, and in reply to all his remonstrances only 
returned him his hat, which they looked upon with contempt, 
and useless even to his unscrupulous "aunt." They even took 
away the hat-band, and then left him to return as best he might, 
to the crowded metropolis, clothed only in a narrow -brimmed 
hat. — The Crescent and the Cross, by Eliot fVarburton. 



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[Tom Coryat.. 



TOM CORYAT. 



The Odcombian leg-stretcher, as he delighted to call 
himself, attained a good deal of notoriety in his own 
day ; nor is he quite forgotten in ours. If not witty 
himself, he was the cause of much wit in others; 
and this has given a kind of vitality to a name that 
might else have long since perished. As Coryat is 
often mentioned in books of some two centuries ago, 
and sometimes even in our current literature, in 
a manner rather puzzling to a reader who is not tole- 
rably conversant with the obscurer authors of bygone 
times, a slight sketch of him may not be unaccept- 
able. He was the son of the Rev. George Coryat, 
rector of Odcombe, in Somersetshire, the holder of 
a prebend in the Cathedral of York and some other 
ecclesiastical preferment, and, further, the author 
of some Latin poetry, that obtained for him a fair 
share of praise from his contemporaries, and a place 
among tlie 4 Worthies' of Thomas Fuller. In the 
parsonage-house of Odcombe Tom was born, in the 
year 1577. He was educated first at Westminster 
School, and afterwards became a commoner of Glouces- 
ter Hall, Oxford, where he continued three years, and 
attained some skill in logic, and more in Latin and 
Greek — " by mere dint of memory," as Chalmers gra- 
tuitously observes. About the year 1600 he was 
launched into the great world with his logic and lan- 
guage, gotten by mere memory or however else, as his 
freightage to turn to such account as he could. Tom 
was probably a humourist, after his fashion, before 
this : for he appears soon to have been received into 
the household of Prince Henry, son of James I., as a 
sort of court-jester : an unpromising start in life ; and 
poor Tom was doomed, like many a wiser man, to feel 
till his death how surely the beginning of life imparts 
its colouring to every succeeding portion of it. Fuller, 
of all who have noticed him, took his measure most ac- 
curately, and he has shown us what use he was put to 
in his new occupation : — " Prince Henry allowed him 
a pension, and kept him for his servant. Sweetmeats 
and Coriat made up the last course at all court enter- 
tainments. Indeed he was the courtiers' anvil to try 
their wits upon; and sometimes this anvil returned 
the hammers as hard knocks as it received, his blunt- 
ness repaying their abusiveness." 

It was no doubt necessity that led him to accept such 
a post, and an insatiable craving for excitement and 
notice that enabled him to continue in it, as he appears 
to have done for some years. Be that as it may, he 
most likely quitted it as soon as his circumstances al- 
lowed him. His father died in 1606, and Tom from 
some strange whim kept his body above-ground for 



several months. There had long " itched a very burn- 
ing desire in him, to survey and contemplate some of 
the choicest parts of this goodly fabric of the world ;" 
and having probably obtained some addition to his 
means by the death qf his father, he determined to 
gratify this desire to some extent by a continental tour. 
Accordingly he " embarked at Dover on the 14th day 
of May, about 10 of the clock in the morning, being 
Saturday and Whitsun-eve, anno 1606." He was gone 
five months, during which time he went through 
France and as far as Venice, and returned by way of 
Germany. •• The number of cities," he says, •• that I 
saw in these five months are five and forty. Whereof 
in France five. In Savoy one. In Italy thirteen. In 
Rhetia one. In Helvetia three. In some parts of 
High Germany fifteen. In the Netherlands seven." 
The number of miles he passed over he reckons to be 
one thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven, for the 
most part too on foot ; and, what shows the honesty of 
his Crispin, he went nine hundred miles on one pair 
of soles, and the shoes he set out in brought him safely 
home. He hung them up on his return, as they well 
deserved, for a memorial in Odcombe Church, where 
they remained till 1702. Fur a while he was content 
with talking over his travels, or reading the notes he 
bad accumulated " with incessant labour and Herculean 
toil " to a chosen few ; but at length he let himself be 
persuaded to publish them, which he did — at his own 
cost— in 1611, in a bulky quarto volume, with this not 
inapt title :— * Coryat's Crudities, hastily gobbled up in 
five months' Travels in France, Savoy, Italy, Rhetia, 
commonly called the Grisons country, Helvetia alias 
Switzerland, some parts of High Germany, and the 
Netherlands; newly digested in the hungry air of 
Odcombe in the County of Somerset, and now dis- 
persed to the nourishment of the travelling members 
of this kingdom.' Appended to it were some sixty 
copies of verses by several of the most eminent wits of 
the day : among others Ben Jonson, Sir John Harring- 
ton, Chapman, Donne, Drayton, Inigo Jones, Law- 
reuce Whitaker, &c. They are written in Greek, 
Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, Welsh, Irish, * Maca- 
ronic,' and even Utopian tongue, as well as in English. 
Of course they are all in a mock laudatory strain, 
almost all excessively quizzical— some rather too much 
so ; but there is little real humour in them, and, what 
we should hardly expect, they are dismally dull, or at 
least seem so now. Walpole said truly enough, while 
they all try to make the book appear foolish, it is cer- 
tainly not so foolish as their verses. It may appear 
singular that Corytt should have printed them, but it 
is not likely, as some have supposed, that he was de- 
ceived by them ; indeed be expressly says that he did 



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■[January 4, 



not print them by his own wish, but was commanded to 
do so by the prince ; and although he swallows their 
praise without wry faces, he adds — *' Many of them 
are disposed to glance at me with their free and merry 
jests, for which I desire thee (courteous reader) to sus- 
pend thy censure of me till thou hast read over my 
whole book." As might be supposed, these verses 
were far more attractive than the remainder of the 
work, and they were soon republished separate from 
it under the title of the ' Odcombian Banquet;' with a 
prose 'Advertisement' affixed, which the writer of 
Coryat's Life in Chalmers' ' Biographical Dictionary ' 
ha3 •* transcribed as a specimen of Coryat's style :" an 
unfortunate selection, for not only did Coryat not 
write it, but in the 'Second Course of his Crudities, 
his * Cramb, or Colwort twice sodden/ he attacks it in 
set phrase, in a passage which is really a good speci- 
men of his manner. He thinks it needful, he says, to 
" advertise the gentle reader of a book printed in hug- 
germugger, intituled the Odcombian Banquet .... 
because it doth not a little concern my credit to clear 
myself of two very scandalous imputations laid upon 
me by that virulent and rancorous peasant, some base 
lurking nedantical tenebricious Lucifuga, that set 
forth the nook." Which two very scandalous imputa- 
tions are the motto on the title-page and the passage 
which Chalmers transcribed as a specimen of his style. 
In this Advertisement it is hinted that " there could not 
be four pages worth the reading melted out of the 
lump of the book ;" whereas Tom affirms, " by way of 
opposition against the malicious censure of that hyper- 
critical Momus, that of the six hundred fifty and 
four pages (for indeed so many are in the book) he 
shall find at the least five hundred worth the reading. 
. . . This also I will say further for the confirmation 
of the sufficiency of my historical notes (seeing they 
arc so severely chastised by the censorious rod of this 
malevolent traducer, that biteth my work with his 
Theonine teeth), and yet without any vain-glorious os- 
tentation : that let him, or any other whatsoever in our 
whole kingdom of Great Britain, show both larger an- 
notations for quantity and better for quality, gathered 
in five months' travels by any Englishman since the 
incarnation of Christ, I will be rather contented to 
consecrate all the books that remain now in my hands 
either to god Vulcan or goddess Thetis, than to present 
one more to any gentleman that favours wit ana learn- 
ing." Thus can Tom, as he elsewhere says, " with all 
perspicuity and plainness, overthrow, pessundate, and 
annihilate all fained objections." 

And now, if it be asked what is the value of these 
' Crudities,' we are compelled to reply, very little. Tho- 
mas, it must be confessed, is grievously prolix, which, 
as he describes buildings and counts antiquities rather 
than paints manners — which we can find plenty to do 
over the same ground in our own day, with equal ful- 
ness and choice of rhetoric — makes him rather a wea- 
risome companion. Yet his notes are not quite without 
value — if only as showing how much less foolish than 
wise men reckon, even a not wise man may be. If it 
were not so long, his book might be accounted inter- 
esting. Coryat was deficient in most of the essentials 
of a traveller, or rather of one who can both observe 
for himself and impart toothers the real characteristics 
of the people whom he visits ; but he was an honest 
describer of what he did notice, and scrupulously men- 
tions when he repeats anything from hearsay— of 
which things some are strange enough, and were pro- 
bably fabricated for the purpose of imposing upon him. 
He was possessed with a genuine love of travelling; so 
that he could boldly set out alone and with little money 
if) his pocket, not only on a continental trip, but as we 
shall see, to walk overland to India ; accounting " of 
all pleasures in the world travelling to be the sweetest 



and most delightful." He could, moreover, in the true 
spirit of a pedestrian, bear rou^h lodging and poor 
provender without lamentation. If he is forced to make 
nis bed in a coach in the inn-yard (at Lodi). the inn 
being full ; or (at Strasburgh) " in a boat sub dio upon a 
wad of straw, with the cold open air for a coverlet ;" or 
even (as at Bergamo) with the horses in the stable ; 
like the philosopher he does not 

"Whine, put finger i' the eye, or tob, 
Because he 'a* ne'er another tub," 

but bears it patiently, or, perhaps, puts a picture of 
himself at the horses' heels in his frontispiece. Nay, if 
he has companions in misfortune, he is ever ready to 
comfort them. Thus he and two others reached Reca, 
on the Rhine, after the gates of the town were locked 
for the night, and though they M made all the means 
that might be to be admitted into the town, it was 
absolutely denied them." Whereupon, he continues, 
we " went into one of the ships that lay at the quay, 
determining to take a hard lodging there all night 
upon the bare boards. No sooner were we in the ship 
but I began to cheer my company as well as I could 
with consolatory terms, and pronounced a few verses 
out of Virgil, tending to an exhortation to patience in 
calamities. But at last the Burgomaster of the town, 
being touched with a certain sympathy of our misery 
(having himself belike at some time tasted of the like 
bitter pills of adverse fortune), was contented that the 
gates should be opened to admit us into the town . . . 
to our infinite comfort ; for we were all most miserably 
weather-beaten and very cold, especially* I for mine 
own part, who was almost ready to give up the ghost 
through cold." 

We shall not inflict upon the reader an account of 
the contents of these "six hundred fifty and four 
pages," in which the verses and orations are not 
included ; but offer merely a few samples of the ware. 
Tom, as we have hinted, is laboriously full in his 
descriptions of buildings, and we shall therefore pass 
them over— which he never does ; only giving, in that 
line, his notice of the Place of St. Mark's, at Venice, 
which has, at least, its brevity to recommend it:— 

" The fairest place of all the city (which h indeed of 
that admirable and incomparable beauty that I think no 
plate whatsoever, either in Christendom or Paganism, 
may compare with it) is the Piazza, that is, the market- 
place of St. Mark. Truly such is the stupendous (to 
use a strange e pi the ton for so strange and rare a place 
as this) glory of it, that at my first entrance thereof, it 
did even amaze, or rather ravish my senses. For hcie 
is the greatest magnificence of architecture to be seen 
that any place under the sun doth yield. Here you 
may see both all manner of fashions of attire, and 
hear all the languages of Christendom, besides those 
that are spoken by the barbarous Ethnicks ; the fre- 
quency of people being so great twice a day, between 
six of the 'clock in the morning and eleven, and again 
betwixt five in the afternoon and eight, that, as au 
elegant writer saith of it, a man may very properly 
call it rather orbis than urbis forum, that is, a market- 
place of the world, not of the city." 

While he so carefully notes all the buildings he sees, 
he does not neglect other " signs of civilization ;" he 
generally, for example, mentions a gibbet whenever 
he meets with one. Thus, "a little on this side of 
Paris there is the fairest gallows that ever I saw, built 
upon a little hillock called Mount Falcon/' Near 
Moulins he observed "one very rueful and tragical 
object, ten men hanging in their clothes upon a goodly 
gallows made of freestone, whose bodies were consumed 
to nothing, only their bones and the ragged fitters of 
their clothes remaining." Not unlike which was "a 
very doleful and lamentable spectacle I saw a little ou 



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this side Montargis : the hones and ragged fragments 
of clothes of a certain murderer remaining on a wheel, 
whereon most murderers are executed : the hones 
were miserably hroken asunder, and disposed abroad 
upon the wheel in divers places." 

Like all Italian travellers he is eloquent about the 
pictures he sees, and if his taste he not as orthodox, his 
admiration is at least as genuine as that of more recent 
tourists. In the " Podessa of Padua are many curious 
pictures, in one whereof there is the exquisitest con- 
veyance that ever I saw, which is a pretty little picture 
drawn in the form of an handkerchief with four cor- 
ners, and inserted into another very large and fair pic- 
ture. The lesser picture is so passingly cunningly 
handled, that the lower corners of it seem either to 
hang loose, and to be a pretty way from the ground of 
the main picture, or to be pinned upon the other. And 
so will any stranger whatsoever conceive at the first 
sight thereof, as indeed I did, insomuch that I durst 
have laid a great wager, even ten to one, that the lower 
corners of it had been loose or pinned on. But such is 
the admirable, and methinks inimitable curiosity of 
the work, that it is all wrought upon the ground of the 
picture as the other several parts thereof are." We 
will give one example of his mode of describing natural 
scenery : — " The swiftest and violentest lake that ever I 
saw is that which runneth through Savoy, called Lezere 

[Ise're], which is much swifter than the Rhodanus at 
<yons, that by the poets is called rapidissimus amnis. 
For this is so extremely swift that no fish can possibly 
live in it, by reason that it will be carried away by the 
. most violent course of the torrent, and dashed against 
huge stones, which are in most places of the lake. Yea, 
there are many thousand stones in that lake much 
bigger than the stones of Stoneage by the town of 
Amesbury in Wiltshire, or the exceeding great stone 
upon Hamdon-hill in Somersetshire, so famous for the 
quarry, which is within a mile of the parish of Odcombe, 
my dear natalitial place. These stones fell into this 
river, being broken from the high rocks of the Alps, 
which are on both sides of it. The cause of the extra- 
ordinary swiftness of this lake is the continual flux of 
the snow water descending from those mountains, 
which doth augment and multiply the lake in a thou- 
sand places. There is another thing also to be observed 
in this lake, the horrible and hideous noise thereof; 
for I think it keepeth almost as terrible a noise as the 
river Cocytus in hell, which the poets do extol for the 
murmuring thereof." 

[To be continued.] 



SUPPLY OF WATER IN SCOTCH TOWNS. 
A remarkable proposal recently made, for employing 
the agency of a railway in conducting a supply of 
water into Edinburgh, leads us to notice the present 
means of supply. Previously, however, it may oe well 
to say a few words respecting the water-system fol- 
lowed elsewhere in Scotland. 

The town of Greenock possesses one of the finest 
system of water-works to be found in the kingdom ; 
since there is an abundant supply of water for domestic 
purposes, and water-power to work a number of mills, 
both provided by the same agency. From the 'Gazet- 
teer of Scotland' we learn that this work was accom- 
plished in 1827, by an association called the 'Shaw's 
Water-Corn pan y/ constituted by act of parliament in 
1825. The work consists of an immense artificial lake 
or reservoir, situated in the bosom of the hills behind 
the town. The town itself lies on a flat strip of land 
between the Clyde and these hills; and as the water of 
the river is riot here fit for drinking, the hills behind 
the town were looked to as the source of supply. Into 
the reservoir has been made to flow all the streams 



having an available altitude, including that called 
Shaw's Water, which used formerly to flow into the 
Clyde, and which has given name to the company. 

From this reservoir an aqueduct passes along the 
mountain-range, running for several miles at an eleva- 
tion of five hundred feet above the level of the sea. 
The whole length of the aqueduct is six miles and a 
half. The reservoir has an area of three hundred 
acres ; besides which is a compensation reservoir of 
forty acres, and other smaller basins. Self-acting 
sluices, of very ingenious construction, prevent the 
danger of any overflow, and completely preserve the 
water during even the greatest flood. There are two 
extensive filters. In the vicinity of the town it pours 
down a current of water in successive falls, which 
impel two grist-mills, a mill for cleaning rice and 
coffee, a paper-mill, a sail-cloth and cordage factory, a 
factory for spinning wool, and a large cotton-mill — all 
erected on tne course of the aqueduct. The water- 
wheel of the cotton factory, supplied wholly by this 
singular aqueduct, is the largest and most magnificent 
in the world ; it is seventy feet in diameter ; it is 
capable of giving power equal to that of two hundred 
horse; the axle of* the wheel weighs eleven tons, and 
the wheel itself nearly a hundred and twenty tons; 
round the circumference are ranged a hundred and 
sixty buckets, each capable of holding a hundred gal- 
lons, and by the falling of the water into these buckets 
the ponderous wheel is made to rotate once in a mi- 
nute. There seems a probability that many parts of 
this water-course will thus be rented by the owners of 
mills ; so that the water will serve a double duty, first 
setting machinery in motion, and then supplying pure 
water to the town of Greenock. 

Glasgow, being situated sufficiently high up the 
Clyde to have fresh water passing through it, is sup- 
plied with water from that source ; but this was not 
the case until about forty years ago. Until the latter 
end of the last century the inhabitants obtained their 
supply from about thirty public and a few private 
wells". In 1770 the magistrates caused plans to be 
made for a supply from the inland districts, but the 
scheme fell to the ground ; and so did another which 
was brought forward in 1794. At length a single 
individual did that which the corporation had been so 
long trying to do. In 1804 Mr. William Harley, who 
had feued the lands of Willowbank, constructed a re- 
servoir in the upper part of the city, and conducted 
thither the water trom springs in the land which he 
had feued ; this water he sold to the inhabitants by 
means of huge cisterns placed in carriages, drawn 
through the streets. The partial success of this enter- 
prise induced a numher of individuals to form them- 
selves into a company for supplying the city with fil- 
tered water from the Clyde. In 1806 they obtained 
an act of parliament, ana erected water- works about 
two miles above Glasgow ; in 1808 another company 
was formed for a similar object at a different spot ; and 
within a few years past the two companies have com- 
bined. Eight million gallons of water per day are 
supplied by these works. 

The city of Edinburgh derives its supply of water 
from the Pentland Hills, which form a ridge a few 
miles to the south; and it is from the same source 
that the proposed supply per railway is to be obtained. 
Like most other places, the Scottish metropolis ob- 
tained by very slow degrees such an arrangement as 
would afford an adequate supply of this most valuable 
commodity. In the year 1621 the magistrates obtained 
an act of parliament empowering them to cast • seuches 
and ditches' in the land between the city and the 
Pentland, and to construct means of bringing water; 
but during half a century they seem to have found no 
engineer to carry out the plans, or else they themselves 



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wanted the necessary resources. In 1674 they paid 
Peter Bruschi, a German, about three thousand pounds 
for laying down a leaden pipe three inches in diameter, 
from a place named Corniston* about four miles west 
of the city, to a reservoir on the Castle Hill. Soon 
after this, new or additional springs were made to con- 
tribute to the supply ; and as the quantity of water 
thus procured was more than the pipe could convey, 
a new pipe four inches and a half in diameter was gra- 
dually laid down in lieu of it At a later period a new 
act of parliament was obtained, more extensive in its 
provisions than the former ; for by it the corporation 
was empowered to obtain a supply of water from any 
lands whatever within three miles of the original foun- 
tain at Corniston. In 1787 a cast-iron pipe, five inches 
in diameter, was laid as an additional medium of sup- 
ply. Three years afterwards another pipe, seven inches 
in diameter, was laid from springs on the lands of 
Swanston. But the supply from all these sources 
being found inadequate to "the increased demand of 
the city, a joint-stock company was formed in 1810, 
and incorporated in 181ft, to carry pipes from two 
great springs eight miles distant, at Crawley and 
Glencoise. 

In the map of the 'Environs of Edinburgh,' pub- 
lished by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful 
Knowledge, the course of these two aqueducts or 
water-courses is marked by dotted lines. Of the 
general nature of the undertaking Mr. Buchanan 
remarks, while speaking of the modern substitution of 
pipes for the expensive arcades on the Roman system : 
— " The most complete and perfect works of the kind 
are those some time ago undertaken for the supply of 
Edinburgh, which, by the contrivance and direction 
of Mr. Jardine, the company's engineer, have been 
executed in a style quite worthy of the city, as well as 
of the present advanced state of science and the arts ; 
offering, both in the general design and in all the de- 
tails, a model of propriety and skill in this species of 
hydraulic architecture." The following are tne chief 
noticeable points in this system, as described by this 
engineer in the * Encyclop. Britannica.' 

The Crawley spring, from which the new supply has 
been derived, issues from the side of a rising ground 
on the southern base of one of the Pentland hills. It 
is scarcely seven miles distant from Edinburgh in a 
straight line, but nearly nine miles in the line of the 
pipes, these having been carried round a considerable 
way to the eastward to avoid the Pentland ridge. The 
spring is elevated about five hundred and sixty feet 
above the level of the sea, and three hundred and 6ixty 
above the level of Princes Street, Edinburgh ; there is, 
therefore, ample height to carry it over the highest 
parts of the town, the source being much higher than 
any of the houses. The original issue of the spring 
was greatly increased by a drain, which was car- 
ried for about half a mile above the spring, in the 
valley in which it is situated. The soil of this valley, 
consisting of an immense bed of gravel having a thick- 
ness in some places of forty feet, constitutes a vast 
natural filter, through which the water, descending 
from the hi$b grounds on each side of the valley, perco- 
lates in a high degree of purity ; and being all inter- 
cepted by the drain, it is conducted, along with all the 
original discharge of the spring, into a reservoir or 
water-house. From this reservoir the pipes take their 
rise which convey the water to the city. In the first 
three miles these pipes vary from eighteen to twenty 
inches in diameter, and descend sixty-five feet in a 
pretty regular series ; in the remainder of the course 
they are fifteen inches in diameter, and descend nearly 
three hundred feet. The descent is not perfectly regu- 
lar, being in some parts steeper than in others, accord- 
ing to the natural delivity of the country. In one or 



two instances, alto, they undulate slightly; near 
Burdie-house, four miles from the city, they ascend a 
little : and after descending rapidly to Libberton Dams 
they again ascend twenty or thirty feet to the high 
ground on the north side of the Meadows. There are, 
however, no sudden inequalities, all such having been 
carefully avoided by levelling, for which purpose con- 
siderable embankments and cuttings of the ground 
were made. As it approaches the city the pipe is car- 
ried through a tunnel more than two thousand feet 
long and eighty feet below the surface. 

When the water arrives at the city it is distri- 
buted in different directions, to supply different 
Strta. One branch leads to a reservoir near Heriot's 
ospital, to supply the south-west ; another branch 
supplies the south-east ; a third branch is carried up 
to a reservoir on the top of the Castle Hill, to supply 
the central parts of the old town ; while the main body 
is carried by a tunnel pierced through the solid rock 
on which the Castle stands, to the southern or new 
town, where it ramifies through ail the principal 
streets. These main channels are formed of iron-pipe 
half an inch thick, in lengths of nine feet each, securely 
joined end to end. The supply of water conveyed by 
this means amounts to about two hundred cubic feet 
per minute, on an average ; this is about five times the 

Quantity formerly delivered into the town by all the 
ifferent ponds and reservoirs from which it was then 
supplied, and which was besides often of a very impure 
and unwholesome quality. The expense of the whole 
undertaking was about a hundred and fifty thousand 
pounds ; and the inhabitants pay for the accommoda- 
tion by a rate equal to about five per cent on the an- 
nual rental of tne houses. 

It is to render the springs found in the Pentland 
Hills still more available for the supply of Edinburgh, 
that the recent proiect, brought forward within the 
last few weeks, has been planned. The general cha- 
racter of it is this :— Those who have paid any attention 
to the present turmoil in railway schemes are aware that 
there are two rival projects for carrying a railway from 
Carlisle northward into the heart of Scotland. One 
of these is the Carlisle and Dumfries line, communi- 
cating with Glasgow by way of Kilmarnock and Paisley ; 
while the other is the Caledonian, proceeding northward 
from Carlisle to Lanark, and there diverging north- 
west to Glasgow and north-east to Edinburgh. This 
north-east branch crosses the Pentland Hills in its way 
to Edinburgh, and a provisional arrangement has been 
made between the railway company and a water com- 

1>any, whereby a range of pipes is to be laid along the 
ine of railway itself, from the hills to the city, capable 
of conveying an immense quantity of water. The 
project evidently opens up a subject likely to prove of 
great importance ; and the admirable facilities of rail- 
ways seem to give some probability to the surmise that 
the day is not far distant when passengers, goods, 
water, gas, and telegraphic intelligence, will all travel 
per railway. Of this water-project the 'Railway 
Chronicle' justly observes : — " At a moment when the 
condition and morals of our labouring population 
occupy so large a portion of public sympathy and atten- 
tion—when sanitary arrangements of government are 
about to be extended to the construction of dwellings 
for our industrious poor — when the means of personal 
cleanliness are about to be provided for those who have 
not hitherto enjoyed them— a new plan which will con- 
vert any railway, without impeding its primary object, 
into a channel tor pouring into the streets of a populous 
town or a crowdea city copious supplies of a refresh- 
ing element so necessary to the comforts of life, is an 
application of these great public works devoutly to be 
wished." 



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BAGDAD. 

The external appearance of Bagdad does not disap- 
point the expectations which may have been formed 
from Eastern history and romance. It stands in a 
forest of date-trees, which conceal the meanness of 
its buildings from the approaching stranger, but allow 
such glimpses of its splendid minarets and domes as 
prevent him from suspecting that the ancient glory of 
Bagdad has entirely departed. 

Bagdad is divided into two parts by the Tigris, and 
is in 33° 20' N. lat. and 44° 24' E. long., on the banks 
of the Tigris, about two hundred miles, in a direct line, 
above the junction of that river with the Euphrates, 
and three hundred miles above the point where the 
united stream enters the Persian Gulf. It was ori- 
ginally built on the western bank of that noble stream ; 
but the court having been removed, in the latter part 
of the eleventh century, to the opposite side, the more 
respectable part of the population gradually followed, 
and the original site became a sort of suburb, inhabited 
chiefly by the poor. This is the present state of the 
town, the whole of which, on both sides of the river, is 
surrounded by a high and thick wall of brick and mud, 
which is flanked at regular distances with round em- 
battled towers. Some of these were constructed in 
the time of the caliphs, and in workmanship aud size 
greatly exceed those of more modern date, and are 
now mounted with cannon in no very serviceable con- 
dition. The citadel is on the eastern bank of the 
Tigris, at the point within the wall where it abuts on 
the river, to the north of the city. It commands the 
communication across the river, but it is not of great 
extent, nor are its fortifications much above the 
general level of the ramparts of the city. It serves 
as an arsenal and barrack. The whole city wall on both 
sides of the river is about five miles in circumference ; 
but a large portion of the area which it encloses is 
laid out in gardens and plantations of date-trees. 

no. 820. 



Under the wall there is a dry ditch of considerable 
depth, which may, when occasion requires, be filled 
from the river. 

The interior of Bagdad miserably disappoints the 
expectations which the exterior view may nave raised. 
It is built on no regular plan, and there are few towns, 
even in Asia, the streets of which are so narrow and 
tortuous. They are not paved ; they are full of in- 
equalities, occasioned by deposits of rubbish, and ren- 
dered disgusting by dead carcasses and all manner ot 
filth, which would endanger the public health, were 
not the most noxious part speedily removed by the 
numbers of unowned and half-savage dogs. 

In general, the houses do not, as in Western Turkey, 
present any windows to the street. Instead of a re- 
gular front with windows, there are high walls pierced 
by low and mean-looking doors, but in some of the 
better streets, the Turkish kiosk, or large projecting 
window, or else the Persian lattice, occasionally occur* 
The houses are mostly built of kiln-burnt bricks, 
which are not, when new, much unlike those employed 
in London, either in shape or colour : but new bricks 
are rarely employed unless in public buildings, as old 
ones can easily be obtained by turning up the ground 
in almost any direction around the city. The walls 
are, to appearance, of very great solidity and thickness ; 
but they are only faced with brick, the space between 
being tilled up whh earth and rubbish. The houses 
are much higher than those in Persia. The latter 
have seldom more than one floor, with perhaps a cellar 
for lumber ; but the houses at Bagdad have two floors 
besides the habitable cellars. The ground-floor is 
occupied with baths, store-rooms, and servants' offices. 
The first floor contains the state and family rooms. 
The great height of the apartments on this floor makes 
the house as high as one of two stories in this country. 
The splendid and often elegant appearance of these 
rooms presents a striking contrast to the filthy and 
beggarly aspect of the streets. The rooms have often 

Vol. XIV.-C 



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vaulted ceilings, which are decorated with chequered- 
work and mouldings in very good taste. They arc 
amply provided with windows of coloured glass, and 
the walls are so profusely ornamented with gilding, 
painting, and inlaid mirrors, as to make a stronger 
impression on a stranger than a detailed examination 
will, perhaps, be found to confirm. The buildings of 
a house in Bagdad commonly occupy two or three sides 
of the interior of a square court. In this court, which 
is paved with squared stones, some date-trees are 
usually planted ; and there is frequently a fountain in 
the centre. Access to the first floor is afforded by 
external stairs of stone, which conduct to the verandah, 
into which all the doors of that floor open. This ve- 
randah, which is supported by the walls of the ground- 
floor, is generally wide, and paved with squared stones, 
and its boarded covering and carved screen are sup- 
ported by pillars of wood, the capitals of which are 
often very curious. 

In Bagdad, as in all other Turkish cities, the only 
public buildings of note are the mosques, the khans or 
caravanserais, and the bazaars. There are said to be 
about one hundred mosques in the town; but not 
more than thirty are distinguished, in a general view 
of the city, by domes and minarets. The domes are 
remarkable not less for their unusual height than for 
being covered with glazed tiles, of various colours, 
chiefly green, blue, black, and white, disposed with con- 
siderable taste. The minarets, which are more massive 
in their structure than those of Constantinople, and are 
without the conical termination which the latter ex- 
hibit, are also glazed, but in better taste than the 
domes, the colour being of a light brown, with a differ- 
ent colour to mark the lines formed by the junction of 
the bricks. These lofty minarets and beautifully 
shaped domes reflect the rays of the sun with very 
brilliant effect Some of the more ancient towers are 
surrounded by the nests of storks, the diameter of 
which nearly corresponds with that of the structure. 

The bazaars of Bagdad are numerous and extensive, 
but are in appearance much inferior to those of some 
other Oriental cities of less note. Many of the streets 
of shops which compose them are long, tolerably wide 
and straight, and vaulted in the usual manner with 
brickwork ; many others are narrow, and covered only 
with a roof of straw, dried leaves, or branches of trees, 
supported on flat beams laid across. The bazaars are, 
in ordinary times, well supplied with Oriental produce 
and manufactures. The baths, as in all other Oriental 
towns, are numerous. The khans, or caravanserais, 
which amount to about thirty, do not demand parti- 
cular notice : they are inferior to those of some other 
Turkish towns, and do not admit of the least comparison 
with those of Persia. 

The communication between the two parts of the city 
divided by the Tigris is by means of a bridge of thirty 
pontoons. Another mode of communication is by 
means of large round baskets, coated with bitumen, 
which are the wherries of the Tigris, Euphrates, and 
Dialah. The river is about seven hundred and fifty 
feet wide, in full stream, at Bagdad, and the rapidity of 
its course varies with the season. Its waters are very 
turbid, although perfectly clear at Mosul, and until the 
Great Zab enters the Tigris. 

The existing ancient remains in Bagdad are very 
few ; but these few far exceed any of the modern struc- 
tures in solidity and elegance. 1 here are three or four 
mosques, the oldest of which was built by Mansur's 
successor in the year 785, and has now only remaining 
a minaret which is said to be the highest in the city, 
near the centre of which it stands. It commands a 
most extensive view over the town and adjacent coun- 
try, and on a clear day the Tauk Kesra at Cte&iphon 
can be distinctly perceived from it. Of the mosques of 



more modern date, that of Abdul Kadder, although 
rivalled by two or three others, is the largest and finest. 
Underneath its lofty and beautiful dome are deposited 
the bones of a famous Sonni doctor of the above name, 
who lived at the latter end of the twelfth century, and 
who is considered the patron saint of Bagdad. This 
mosque is well supplied with water by a canal from the 
river, and the court is furnished with a vast number of 
cells for the accommodation of three hundred devotees, 
who are supported from the funds of the establishment. 
Bagdad was at one time the Athens of Mohammedan 
Asia, and the seat of, perhaps, more science than at 
that time existed in any other part of the world. The 
college, founded in the year 1233 by the Caliph Moo- 
stanser Billah, acquired great fame in the East: it 
still exists, as a building, near the bridge of boats, but 
it has been transformed into a khan, and the old 
kitchen 1 is now the custom-house. There are six 
gates in the entire wall ; three to each portion of the 
city, as divided by the Tigris. The largest and finest is 
the Talism gate, which, according to an Oriental cus- 
tom, was walled up when Sultan Murad IV. had passed 
through it on his return to Constantinople, after he 
had recovered Bagdad from the Persians. It has never 
since been opened. Outside the walls, on the eastern 
side of the town, there is a large burial-ground, in the 
midst of which is a tomb erected to the memory of the 
wife of the Caliph Harun al Raschid, the famous Zo- 
beide of the 'Thousand and One Nights.' It was 
erected by the caliph's second son Abdallah al Ma- 
moon, and is an octangular structure, capped by a 
cone which much resembles a pine-apple in shape. 
The ruins and foundations of old buildings, and even 
the lines of streets, may be traced to a great distance 
beyond the present walls of the town. On the western 
side these remains extend nearly to Agerkuf, or the 
* Mound of Nimrod,' as it is called by the natives. 
This structure must originally have stood at no great 
distance from the gates of the ancient city. It is now 
reduced by time to a shapeless mass of brickwork 
about one hundred and twenty-six feet in height, one 
hundred feet in diameter, ana three hundred feet in 
circumference at the lower part, which, however, is 
much above the real base. 

The climate of Bagdad is salubrious, but intensely 
hot in summer. A drop of rain rarely falls at Bagdad 
later than the beginning of May, or earlier than to- 
wards the end of September. After the end of Sep- 
tember, the rains are copious for a time, but the win- 
ter is, on the whole, dry. Nevertheless, the autumnal 
rains at Bagdad and other parts of the country are so 
heavy, that the Tigris, which sinks greatly during the 
summer months, again fills its channel and becomes a 
powerful and majestic stream. This occurs again in 
the spring, when the snows dissolve on the distant 
mountains. The low lands on both sides of this river 
and the Euphrates are then inundated ; and when the 
fall of snow has been very great in the preceding win- 
ter, the country between and beyond the two rivers, in 
the lower part of their course, assumes the appearance 
of a vast lake, in which the elevated grounds look like 
islands, and the towns and villages are also insulated. 
The plague occasionally visits Bagdad, and in No. 10G 
we have given an account, by a survivor, of that of 1831. 

The population of Bagdad is exceedingly mixed ; 
and the very distinctive dresses of each people clearly 
indicate the component parts of the population. The 
Osmanli Turks scarcely ever wear at Bagdad the em- 
broidered jacket, cat>acious trowsers, and close cap so 
common in the neighbourhood of the capital : the civil 
dress prevails— the long loose gowns of cotton, muslin, 
or silk, with wide shapeless cloaks of broadcloth or 
shalloon ; while the red cap, with its blue tassel, in- 
stead of fitting close to the head, hangs loosely back- 



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ward, and is wound about with white muslin, flowered 
with gold. Christians dress much in the same man- 
ner. They are not, as in many other towns, restricted 
from light colours in their dress, or from wearing yel- 
low slippers; but they are expected to abstain alto- 
gether from green colours and from white turbans. 
The Jews are generally distinguished by having their 
red caps fitting close to the head, with only a yel- 
low handkerchief tied around them. The Arabs form 
a very important part of the resident population, 
besides a large number from the desert as occasional 
sojourners. They are distinguished chiefly by their 
head-dress, which consists of a coarse shawl of silk 
and cotton, with wide stripes of red and yellow; 
this is folded triangularly, and laid upon the head, 
around which a thick roller of brown worsted is then 
passed. The ends of the shawl cover' the neck and 
shoulders ; and as it is also furnished with a fringe of 
knotted strings which hang down the back, it helps to 
give a wild appearance to the Arab countenance. 
They are also distinguished by their wide sleeveless 
cloaks, which are wholly black, or white with a wide 
stripe of blue, brown, or red. This cloak {abba) is 
made of hair and wool, and when confined at the waist 
by a leathern belt, it generally, with a coarse shirt 
underneath, forms the entire dress of an Arab. His 
turban also distinguishes the Koord : it is frequently 
of silk, with stripes of blue, red, and white ; and its 
fringe of knotted strings, though not po long as in the 
Arab turban, which is also differently worn, excel- 
lently sets off the bold, grave, and strongly marked 
countenance of the pure Koord. Then there are, in 
considerable numbers, the active and animated sub- 
jects of the Persian king, in their curly, black, and 
conical caps, high-heeled slippers, and gowns of green 
or blue, which are distinguished from those of other 
Eastern people by their tightness in the body and the 
sleeves. Such are the figures which, on horseback or 
on foot, appear in the streets of Bagdad, or sit smoking 
by the way-side. It would be incorrect and impossible 
to comprehend these various masses of people under 
one general character. They can only be spoken of in 
the mass with a reference to their knowledge ; and it 
may be said that they are prejudiced, self-conceited, 
and bigoted, because they are profoundly ignorant. 
There is not among them that due proportion of in- 
formed and educated men which redeems the charac- 
ter of a people. In those countries, two-thirds of the 
small amount of knowledge which is the object of the 
education afforded to the higher classes, is not worth 
knowing. The Armenians are decidedly the best- 
informed people in the city. Many of them have been 
in India, and several have spent much of their lives in 
that country. They have thus become acquainted with 
English manners, institutions, and modes of govern- 
ment ; and through them much information is commu- 
nicated to their countrymen who have not enjoyed a 
similar advantage. They, and the more respectable 
Moslem merchants in the town, long for such security 
of property and person as is enjoyed under the British 
government in India. 

The only women in Bagdad who exhibit any part of 
the face in the streets are the Arab females. Their 
dress consists in general of an exceedingly wide che- 
mise of red or blue cotton, to which in winter is added 
one of the same cloaks that arc worn by the men. 
They seldom wear shoes, and never stockings; but 
about the head they wear a mass of black cotton or 
silk stuff, which is rather gracefully disposed. It is 
brought round so as to cover tbe neck and throat and 
the lower part of the face. This head-dress is often 
profusely ornamented with beads, shells, and current 
and ancient coins. They are also fond of wearing 
anklets and bracelets of silver, which are generally 



more than an inch in diameter, and suggest the idea 
of shackles rather than ornaments. But their most 
whimsical decoration is worn on one side of the nose, 
which is bored for the purpose : it consists of a gold 
or gilt button, about the size of a halfpenny, in the 
centre of which a small torquoise stone or a blue bead 
is inserted. Their faces, arms, and other parts of their 
bodies are also decorated with stars, flowers, and other 
figures, stained on the skin with a blue colour, and the 
effect of which is exceedingly unpleasing to a European 
eye. The Turkish and other women so muffle them- 
selves up when they po out, as to appear the most 
shapeless masses imaginable. They are enveloped in 
large sheets of checked blue linen, which cover them 
from head to foot. These Bheets are sometimes of crim- 
son silk, striped with white. Their legs arc inclosed in 
formidable jack-boots of yellow leather ; and their 
faces are covered with a stiff and thick black horse- 
hair veil, through which they can see perfectly, al- 
though it appears to the spectator like paintea tin. 
Ladies of any consideration generally ride out astride 
on the backs of mares or asses, — most generally the 
latter, which are fine large animals, and in many parts 
of the town are kept standing, ready saddled, for We. 
Asses of a whiie colour are common, and are preferred 
for this service; but tbe unfortunate taste of the people 
requires their appearance to be improved by stains of a 
dusty orange colour. 

The manufactures of Bagdad are not very numerous 
or extensive. The red and yellow leathers are excel- 
lent, and are held in high estimation throughout Tur- 
key. Another principal manufacture consists of pieces 
of a sort of plush, in shawl patterns, often very rich 
and beautiful, and used by the Turks for covering the 
cushions which form their divans or sofas. The Ara- 
bian "abba" or cloak, which we have already mentioned, 
is rather extensively manufactured at Bagdad: some of 
the qualities are very fine, and the use of the article is 
not at all confined to the Arabs, to whom it properly 
belongs. If we add to this some stuffs of silk and cot- 
ton, the list of the principal manufactures of the place 
is completed. 

Bagdad was founded by the Caliph Abu Jaafer al 
Mansur, in the year 763 a.d., whether on the site of a 
former city or not, is unknown ; but it is agreed that 
the materials were drawn from Ctesiphon and Seleucia. 
The town was much improved by Harun al Raschid, 
who is said to have been the first who built on the 
eastern bank of the Tigris, connecting the two parts 
by a bridge of boats. It remained a most flourishing 
metropolitan city until the year 1259, when the town 
was taken by storm by Hulaku, a grandson of Ghengiz 
Khan, and the dynasty of the caliphs was extinguished. 
Bagdad remained under the Tartars until the year 1393, 
when it was taken by Timur Beg (Tamerlane), on 
whose approach the Sultan, Ahmed, fled, and for seve- 
ral subsequent years it was alternately in his posses- 
sion, in that of the deposed Sultan, or of the Turkoman 
Kara Yusef. The last of these princes ultimately 
remained in undisturbed possession of the place, and 
it continued with his descendants until 1470 a.d., when 
they were driven out by Ussam Cassim, whose family 
reigned thirty-nine years in Bagdad, when Shah Is- 
mael, tbe founder of the Sulfide dynasty in Persia, 
made himself master of it. From that time to the pre- 
sent the town has been an object of occasional conten- 
tion between the Persians and the Turks. It was 
retaken by the Turkish sultan, Sol v man the Magnifi- 
cent^ and it was regained by Shah Abbas the Great of 
Persia ; but the Persians were ultimately obliged to 
surrender the place to the Sultan Murad IV., by whom 
it was besieged with an army of three hundred thou- 
sand men, in the year 1638 a.d. It has since been 
nominally subject to the Porte. 

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LOCOMOTION OF ANIMALS.— No. XII. 
In descending the scale of organized beings we shall 
pass from Ophidian reptiles to the Gasteropodes, such 
as the Helices or snails, and the Limaces or slugs. The 
movements of these animals are well known to be 
exceedingly slow. The snail, after creeping from its 
shell a, expands its body in such a manner that the 
shell lies poised upon its back (as in Fig. 1). 



Fig. 1. 




The shell is carried with the animal in all its peram- 
bulations, and the body is withdrawn into it on the 
slightest alarm, or when in a state of repose, leaving 
the foot ty, b only, which is in contact with the surface 
on which it treads, without the shell. 

The single foot of the snail is moved by numerous 
muscular fibres, by means of which it is successively 
expanded and contracted at various portions of its disc ; 
so that when one portion of it has advanced, and laid 
hold of an object on the plane of its motion, the next 
is drawn forward, and so on in succession, until every 
portion of the foot has advanced ; but the length of eacn 
step is so small, that the snail takes a long time to 
walk over a path not more than a foot in length. 
The movements of slugs are performed in a similar 
manner, and although they have no house to carry on 
the back, their progression is also very slow. They 
appear to move with greatest freedom over vegetable 
substances, but cannot easily traverse fine, loose soils ; 
because the segments of the foot cannot find on such 
moveable surfaces the requisite fulcrum whereby to 
drag the body along. Gardeners avail themselves of 
this peculiarity to preserve tender plants from their 
ravages, by strewing loose ashes, or, what is still better, 
dry sawdust, over the beds. These gasteropoda secrete 
a viscid fluid on their track, which enables them to 
climb the walls of houses in a vertical path. The 
adhesive fluid, when dry, reflects the lignf, so as to 
present a shining, silvery appearance, with which most 
persons (at least, those who live in the country) are 
familiar. 

Crabs. — These animals are, it is well known, enclosed 
in a solid case, or shell. The body is usually either 
nearly square or a pear-shaped figure, and the tail is 
not so long and flexible as in the lobsters. They are 
furnished with five pairs of legs, which are attached te 
the under side of the trunk, in that portion of it termed 
the cephalo-thorax. The hinge-like joints of the legs 
not having their axes of motion perpendicular, but 
either parallel, or oblique to the mesial axis of the 
trunk, they are unable to walk directly forwards, but 
move on solids either in a lateral or in a retrograde 
direction. Some species, such as the land-crab, or 
Cancer cursor, run with considerable rapidity. It is 
even said that they are capable of running with such 
speed that a man on horseback has great difficulty in 
keeping pace with them. According to Labat, "These 
animals not only live in a kind of orderly society in 
their retreats in the mountains, but regularly once a 
year march down to the sea-side in a body of some 
millions at a time. The sea id their destination, and 



to that they direct their march with right-lined pre- 
cision. No geometrician could send them to their 
destined station by a shorter course : they neither turn 
to the right nor to the left. They will attempt to 
scale walls to keep the unbroken tenor of their way. 
They are commonly divided into three battalions, of 
which the first consists of the boldest and strongest 
males. These are pioneers, who march forward to 
clear the route, and to face the greatest dangers. The 
main body is composed of females, which never leave 
the mountains till the rain has set in for some time ; 
they then descend in columns of fifty paces broad and 
three miles deep. Three or four days after this, the 
rear-guard follows, consisting of males and females, 
neither so robust nor so numerous as the former. The 
night is the chief time of proceeding ; but if it rains 
by day, they do not fail to profit by the occasion. When 
the sun is hot, they make a universal halt, and wait 
till the cool of the evening. They are sometimes three 
months in getting to the shore." The order in which 
the five pairs of legs of the crabs move in walking 
and running does not appear to have been accurately 
observed. 

Spiders. — The Arachnidce, or spiders, are furnished 
with four pairs of legs (the female being provided with 
an additional pair for the purpose of carrying her eggs). 
The legs of the different species of spiders vary consi- 
derably with regard to length, but the order in which 
they move appears to be the same. The joint which 
connects the legs to the body is a kind of ball-and- 
socket joint, which gives the animal the power of 
turning the limbs in various directions, but all the 
other joints of the legs are on the principle of the 
hinge-joint, thus securing firmness and precision in 
movement The extremities terminate in either a 
single or double hook for the purpose of prehension. 

The apparent complexity of the motions of the 
limbs of tnese animals is dissipated by first investigat- 
ing the order in which they move the legs on one side, 
and afterwards that of those on the opposite side. By 
this means it will be found that the spider advances first 
the fore leg, then the fourth, then the third, and lastly 
the second leg ; that is, in the order 1, 4, 3, 2. {Fig. 2.) 

Fig. 2. 




By comparing this order with that of the legs on the 
opposite side, when acting simultaneously, it will be 
found that they begin by moving the first right leg, 
then the fourth left ; then follow the first left, and the 
fourth right ; then the third right, and the second left 



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The first two sets of legs are thus moved consecu- 
tively in the order 1/4, 1, 4', a mode of progression 
which resembles that of quadrupeds: the remaining 
legs move in pairs simultaneously, namely, 3*, 2, and 
then 3, 2f ; and thus it is found that whilst the legs 
of one side of the animal are moving consecutively, in 
the order 1, 2, 3, 4, the legs of the other side are mov- 
ing in pairs, in the order 4', 1', 2f, 3'. Most persons are 
aware of the facility with which spiders spin the beau- 
tiful but fragile cord, by means of which they safely 
descend from heights that would be fatal to larger 
animals unprovided with some means of breaking the 
shock which would result from a fait from such eleva- 
tions. In descending their newly-spun thread, they 
suspend the body to it by one of the hind legs : on 
returning by the same thread, they make use of three 
legs, the two first on one side, and the first or second 
on the other. The spider is endowed with the power 
of running with considerable speed on its web, in the 
chace and capture of its insect prey ; and is capable of 
leaping a considerable distance, many times its own 
length. It throws its thread across chasms, and thereby 
forms for itself a suspension-bridge in an incredibly 
shorter period of time than our most celebrated en- 
gineers are capable of accomplishing; thus showing 
that, inferior as the spider is to man in strength and 
organization, it has yet been amply provided by an all 
watchful and omnipotent Creator with the means of 
transporting itself from place to place, and of procuring 
its sustenance. The same cordage which serves to 
give it a ready passage across cavities which could 
not otherwise be traversed without great labour and 
expenditure of time, serves also as the best material 
with which to weave its net for entrapping its prey. 

Insects.— Many insects are endowed with the triple 
powers of walking, running, and leaping on solids; 
of flying in the air like birds ; and of swimming in 
water like fishes. For these manifold purposes it is 
obvious that they must possess a peculiar organization. 
To enable them to move on solids, they are furnished 
with six legs : the first pair is attached to that part 
of the trunk called the prothorax ; the second pair to 
the mesothorax ; and the third pair to the metatnorax, 
which is the last segment of the thorax. In some 
insects the legs are articulated to the trunk by a ball- 
and-socket joint ; in others by a hinge-joint : the suc- 
ceeding portions of the limbs are linked together by 
hinge-joints. The axes of these joints are turned at 
right angles to each other, so that they have the power 
of executing movements in different planes, some in a 
vertical, and others in a horizontal direction. When 
the perfect insect walks, it is observed to move three 
of its legs simultaneously, whilst the other three re- 
main on the ground, supporting the body and urging 
it forwards. The feet which move simultaneously are 
the fore and hindermost feet on one side, and the 



remain on the ground, whilst those marked 1/ 2, 3' 
are raised and advanced, to take a new position on the 
the plane of support : afterwards, whilst the legs 1', 2, 3' 
support the body in a similar manner to those which 
preceded them in that office, the legs 1, 2', 3 are raised, 
and again advanced ; and by the alternate action of the 
six legs in the order just described, the progression of 
the insect when walking is accomplished. The extra- 
ordinary power with which insects are endowed of 
walking with perfect ease and security up the smooth 
polished surface of glass, and in an inverted position 
on the ceilings of rooms, for a long time excited much 
surprise and speculation as to the means by which 
these feats were performed ; but at length, on mi- 
nutely inspecting the structure of their feet, a curious 
pneumatic apparatus was detected, which fully accounts 
tor the phenomenon in question. The feet of the house- 
fly are found to be furnished with two membranous 
suckers, as seen in Fig. 4 ; and in the Bibio febrilis 
there are three of these suckers, as shown in Fig. 5 



Fig. 3. 





middle foot on the opposite side; consequently, the 
whole of the six feet are moved to accomplish two 
steps. In the first movement the legs 1, 2f, 3 (Fig. 3) 



Fig. 4. Fig. 5. 

These suckers are membranous sacs, which are acted 
on by numerous muscles, so that when the foot is 
placed on a smooth surface, the suckers become en- 
larged by means of their muscles, and a vacuum is 
produced. The pressure of the air without becomes, 
by this means, sufficient to keep the foot firmly pressed 
on the surface to which it is applied. We nere see 
the reason why the house-fly chooses* the smoothest 
surfaces of an apartment to walk upon, unless it 
happens to be moving horizontally ; for if the surfaces 
were rough, the vacuum under the feet would not be 
perfect, and it would fall. Many insects, as the fly, 
are in the larva state destitute of legs, but even these 
contrive to drag themselves along by the alternate 
expansion and contraction of their body. We are 
familiar with an instance of this kind of movement 
in the maggot commonly found in the hazel-nut. As 
soon as it is out of the shell, it strides along; but, 
its trunk being cylindrical, it frequently rolls over in 
its bourse. Other larvae, not content with the slow 
progress made by the method above mentioned, raise 
the central portions of the body high above the plane 
of support, and by means of alternately extending and 
contracting the body, take steps of considerable length. 
This kind of movement is shown in Fig. 6. The trunk 




Fig. 6. 

is first drawn forward from a to b t and the head is then 
extended from c to d: and thus at each step these 
larvae pass over a space equal to a b or c d. During 



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this process many larvae, such as the Geometra, spin 
a silken thread, the length of which is, consequently, 
the measure of their progress made in walking. 

Leaping. — Many insects, such as the flea, the grass- 
hopper, and the cricket, are capable of performing ex- 
traordinary leaps compared with their bulk. In all the 
leaping insects the hinder legs greatly exceed the 
rest in length and strength, and it is in consequence 
of the length and power of this pair that insects are 
capable of projecting themselves to the great distances 
they are known to traverse. The legs are first bent 
as much as possible, and then suddenly expanded with 
great force, so as to propel the body through the air. 
As the grasshopper resides amongst the long grass of 
meadows, such a mode of progression is requisite to 
enable it to pass over the rugged surfaces surrounding 
it on all sides ; and we well know with what ease and 
unerring precision this little creature leaps from point 
to point. 

Worms. — Amongst the Annelidae, or worms, we find 
a great diversity of form, and of locomotive organs, 
suited to the habits and economy of each animal. Some 
live entirely on land, others reside in water, and are 
excellent swimmers. The Lumbrici, or earth-worms, 
being those with which people generally are most fami- 
liar, wih be selected to give an idea of their mode of pro- 
gression. The body of* the earth-worm is cylindrical, 
and nearly of equal diameter from head to tail. J t is sup- 
ported by numerous rings encircling the long axis of 
the trunk throughout, and each ring is furnished with 
eight conical spines, which are called into action when 
the animal walks. Between these rings two sets of 
muscular fibres pass from ring to ring, one set of 
muscles passing longitudinally, and the other set ob- 
liquely. By the aid of these fibres the body of the 
animal can be either lengthened or contracted, as also 
twisted in various directions. When touched, the worm 
immediately assumes the form of the letter S. In 
walking it expands one portion of the body, and con- 
tracts the next successively, so that it requires a series 
of expansions and contractions throughout its entire 
length to accomplish a single step. For this reason 
the progress of the worm is very slow, not being 
capable of effecting more than about the rate of thirty 
feet per hour. 

There are many other animals, still lower in the scale 
of the animal kingdom than the Annelidae, well deserv- 
ing attention, but we must refer those who wish to 
investigate them to the article " Motion'* in the ' Cyclo- 
paedia of Anatomy and Physiology,' in order that we 
may pass to the consideration of the movements of 
animals by swimming. 

TOM CORY AT. 

[Continued from p. 7.] 

Thb observations of Coryat on the people and their 
manners, which would now be interesting for the pur- 
pose of comparison, are but brief and few. We select 
two or three : the first will show his manner of " talking 
notes :"" — " In Lasncburg, situate under the foot of that 
exceeding high mountain Senis, I observed these three 
things. First, the shortness of the women's waists, not 
naturally, but artificially. For all women both of that 
town and all other places besides betwixt that and No- 
valaise, a town of Pi< dmont, at the descent of the moun- 
tain Senis, on the other side, some twelve miles off, did 
gird themselves so high that the distance betwixt their 
shoulders and their girdles seemed to be but a little 
handful. Secondly, the height of their beds : for they 
were so high that a man could hardly get into his bed 
without some kind of climbing, so that a man needed 
a ladder to get up, as we say here in England. Thirdly, 
the strangeness and quaintness of the women's head 



attire : for they wrap and fold together, after a very 
unseemly fashion, almost as much linen upon their 
heads as the Turks do in those linen caps they wear, 
which are called turbants.*' 

We may mention by the way that Thomas is, very 
properly, most attentive to the ladies ; often describing 
their dress, though sometimes without praising it. The 
ladies of Venice especially displease him in that matter, 
for which he censures them in terms that might almost 
be taken for those of a puritan of a generation or two 
later on the costume of our countrywomen. He particu- 
larly dislikes their ' chapineys,' which some wear " even 
half a yard high," so that when they walk out they are 
obliged to be held up " most commonly by the left arm, 
otherwise they might quickly take a fall." One, in- 
deed, he did see •• take a very dangerous fall ;" but 
our hard-hearted traveller •• did nothing pity her, be- 
cause she wore such frivolous and (as 1 may well term 
them) ridiculous instruments which were the occasion 
thereof." If this has lost him any favour, another ex- 
tract will, we hope, set him right with the fairer portion 
of our readers. At Basil he * 4 observed many women 
of this city to be as beautiful and fair as any 1 saw in 
all my travels; but I will not attribute so much to them 
as to compare them with our English women, whom I 
justly prefer, and that without any partiality of af- 
fection, before any women that I saw in my travels, 
for an elegant and most attractive natural beauty." 

The following is curious as an illustration of the 
rudeness of our domestic habits at that period. " I 
observed," he says, "a custom in all those Italian towns 
through the which I passed, that is not used in any 
other country that I saw in my travels, neither do I 
think that any other nation of Christendom doth use it, 
but only Italy. The Italians, and also most strangers 
that are commorant in Italy, do always at their meals 
use a little fork when they cut their meat: for while 
with their knife, which they hold in one hand, they cut 
the meat out of the dish, they fasten their fork, which 
they hold in their other hand, upon the same dish; so 
that whosoever he be that, sitting in the company of 
any others at meals, should unadvisedly touch tne dish 
of meat with his fingers from which all at tabic do cut, 
he will give occasion of offence unto the company, as 
having transgressed the laws of good manners, inso- 
much he shall be at the least brow-beaten, if not repre- 
hended in words. This form of feeding I understand 
is generally used in all places of Italy, their forks 
being for the most part made of iron or steel, and 
some of silver, but these are used only by gentlemen. 
The reason of this their curiosity is because the Italian 
cannot by any means endure to have his dish touched 
with fingers, seeing all men's fingers are not alike clean. 
Hereupon I myself thought good to imitate the Italian 
fashion by this forked cutting of meat not only when I 
was in Italy, but also in Germany, and oftentimes in 
England since I came home : being once quipped for 
that frequent using of my fork by a certain learned 
gentleman, a familiar friend of mine, one Mr. Lawrence 
Whitaker, who in his merry humour doubted not to 
call me at table furcifer, only for using a fork at feed- 
ing, but for no other cause." He observes also that 
the horsemen in Italy carry umbrellas in order to 
shade themselves from the heat of the sun. 

Of all the places he visits he is most delighted with 
"the most glorious, peerless, and maiden city of Ve- 
nice." But the cities and edifices of Italy generally 
" drive him into great admiration ;" and he finds the 
"Italians passing kind and courteous to strangers." 
The Germans he scarcely likes so well, though he docs 
not think them so much given to drinking as they are 
reported to be — not much more certainly than his own 
countrymen. Switzerland he likes, and the Switzers 
too, and finds their " diet passing good in most places , 



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for they bring great variety of dishes to the table, both 
of roast and sod meats : and the charge is something 
reasonable ; for my Spanish shilling did most com- 
monly discharge my shot when I spent most." We 
must notice, out of justice to Tom's credit as a traveller, 
that he always pays a due regard to the cuisine. 

Our traveller s adventures are not very remarkable, 
yet we must not pass them by, such as they are. Ever 
on the watch to pick up all kinds of notabilities, he 
goes on Bartholomew's day into a chapel in Brixia to 
witness " a most solemn and ceremonious dedication of 
a new image of the Virgin Mary with Christ in her 
arms." Here his curiosity leads him into a little pec- 
cadillo, which, as he says, might, if it had been dis- 
covered, have cost him rather dearly. There was, 
it seems, "a great multitude of little waxen idols 
brought to the chapel, whereof some were only arms, 
some thighs, some presented all the parts of a man's 
body." These little idols moved him in a most unex- 
pected manner — even incited in him 4< a marvellous 
itching desire to finger one of them, only to this end, 
to bring it home into England to show it to my friends 
as a token of their idolatry: but I saw there was 
some difficulty in the matter. Howbeit, I gave the 
venture upon it in this manner : I stood at one corner 
of the chape] while many women were at their divine 
oraisons, prostrate before the image, and very secretly 
conveyed my fingers into a little basket (nobody taking 
notice thereof) where the images were laid, and so 
purloined one of them out, and brought him home to 
England ; which had it been at that time perceived, 
pcrha]>3 it might have cost mc the lying in the Inqui- 
sition longer than I would willingly nave endured it." 
This little adventure reminds us of some other of his 
fingerings, told with the like naivet6. See how cer- 
tainly and on what grounds he can pronounce on the 
quality of the grapes of Italy. "There was, alongside 
the roads, a $reat abundance of goodly vineyards, 
which at that time yielded ripe grapes passing fair and 
sweet : for I did oittimes borrow a point of the law in 
going into their vineyards without leave to refresh my- 
self with some of their grapes ; which the Italians, like 
very good fellows, did wink at." He did not, unfor- 
tunately, find the same good fellowship among the 
Germans ; for, going into a vineyard near Worms to 
refresh himself, a sturdy peasant set upon him, and 
though Tom tried his best in a Latin oration to appease 
him, matters be^an to look rather serious ; Tom can- 
not tell how serious they might have become, had not 
one chanced to pass by who interfered to make peace, 
and succeeded so far " that at length the controversy 
was compounded betwixt the cullian and myself, and 
my hat (which had been seized in the struggle) re- 
stored for a small price of redemption, winch was 
twelve of their little coins called fennies, which coun- 
tervails twenty pence of our English money." 

Tom's adventures, we hinted, were not very re- 
markable; he did not like fighting, and he passed 
peaceably enough throughout his journey. Probably, 
if he had not been so peaceable, he might have found 
cause enough for quarrel with those fiery Italian 
tempers. Sometimes he was pretty close to a sample 
of such temper. At Bergamo, we said, he was glad 
to make his bed at the horses' heels, and for such 
stable-bed he was "indebted to the courtesy of an 
honest Italian priest," to whose courtesy he expected 
to be indebted still further ; for " he promised to re- 
visit me the next morning, to the end to show me the 
antiquities of the city. But he was prevented, to my 
great grief, by the v;llainy of a certain bloodthirsty 
Italian, who, for an old grudge he bore to him, shot 
hiin through the body in his lodging with a pcwternel." 
When danger appears nigh, Tom shows himself no bad 
hand at a stratagem. On the road to Baden he sees a 



couple of ill-clad, but armed peasants approaching, and 
he has heard a good deal about their fierceness as well 
as their disregard of the rights of property, so that he 
is in fear lest they should both •• cut his throat and rob 
him of his gold that is quilted in his jerkin." An 
awkward position, but he must make the best of it. 
Fighting is not to be thought of, and his clothes are 
shabby— for he has but the suit he started in, and he is 
now on his way homeward. His resolution is formed. 
Taking his bonnet in his hand some time before they 
reach him, with low bows and expressive signs, backed 
with much Latin speech, he pleads so successfully, 
that, instead of looking after the '* gold that is quilted 
in his jerkin," they give him *' as much of their tin 
money, called fennies (poor as they were), as paid for 
half my supper that night at Baden, even four pence 
halfpenny. *'♦ 

Whatever some might say of these 'Crudities,' Tom 
was satisfied of their value. He had, he knew, collected 
them not without labour, and be not unnaturally 
thought that what had so interested himself would in- 
terest others. To collect his observations and then 
speedily to note them down, he tells Sir Michael Mixes, 
in a letterf requesting him to use his influence with 
the Lord Treasurer to license his book, " 1 took intole- 
rable pains in my travels both by day and night ; scarce 
affording myself two hours' rest sometimes of the whole 
twenty-four, in the city of Venice, by reason of my con- 
tinual writing; whereupon divers Englishmen that 
lay in the same house with mc, observing my extreme 
watchings wherewith I did grievously excruciate my 
body, instantly desired me to pity myself, and not to 
kill myself with ray inordinate labours.*' He is afraid 
that the world will suffer from his book not being 
written in the •' universal language ;" but at the close 
of his epistle to the reader, he warns all against trans- 
lating it while he shall be abroad in his next travels, 
unless it shall be understood by credible report that 
he has miscarried, because after his return from that 
voyage he fully intends to l4 translate both these and 
ray future observations into Latin, for the benefit not 
only of my own country, but also of those countries 
where I have already travelled, or hereafter resolve to 
travel." 

[To be continued.] 



Farmert in India. — Nine-tenths of the immediate cultivators 
of the soil in India are little farmers, who hold a lease for one 
or more years, as the case may be, of their lands, which they 
cultivate with their own stock. One of these cultivators, with a 
good plough and bullocks, and a good character, can always get 
lands on moderate terms from holders of villages. Those cul- 
tivators are, I think, the best who learn to depend upon their 
stock and character for favourable terms, hold themselves free to 
change their holdings when their leases expire, and pretend not 
to any hereditary right of property in the soil. The lands are, 
I think, best cultivated, and the society best constituted in India, 
where the hoi den of estate* of villages have a feeling of perma- 
nent interest in them, an assurance of an hereditary right of pro- 
perty which is liable only to the payment of a moderate govern- 
ment demand, descends undivided by the law of primogeniture, 
and is unaffected by the common law, which prescribes the equal 
subdivision among children of landed as well as other private 
property among the Hindoos and Mohammedans; aud where the 
immediate cultivators hold the lands they till by no other law 
tlwin that of common specific contract— Recollections of India, 
by Lt.-CoL Sletman. 

* Baden, he tays, is " certainly the sweetest place for baths 
that ever 1 saw, by many degrees excelling our English baths 
both fur quantity and quality," and he proceeds to give an 
account of these baths, which for piquancy far surpasses any 
we have had iu our own day. 

f Published iu Sir Egerton Brydges'a ' Centura Litcraria,' 
vol. I 



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Holland t/i the Fifteenth Century. — But besides the greater 
lines of their commerce, every harbour, bight, and bay of Hol- 
land was studded with ships, every rivulet and canal was covered 
with boats : as many, it was commonly said, lived on the water 
as on the land. With sealous competition there was a prudent 
division of trade. Particular towns, as well as particular mer- 
chants and companies, applied themselves in preference to some 
one line of business. Thus Middleburgh was occupied with the 
wine trade, Swaardam with ship-building, Sluys with the her- 
ring-fishery, Amsterdam with the Spanish and Mediterranean 
trades. We shall notice presently their Indian and American 
stations and colonies; these were, commercially, gigantic offsets 
from the main stem ; but the stem had attained colossal dimen- 
sions before the offsets were planted. The character of the people 
was in itself a source and condition of prosperity. Probity and 
punctuality in their dealings were dictates of self-interest, but 
their social and private habits were equally upright and method- 
ical. The rich were moderate and frugal : many a man who 
sold the finest cloth wore himself a coarse coat : their charitable 
institutions were numerous ; and the people of all orders were 
better educated than in any other nation in Europe. Few houses 
were without maps or charts; and acquaintance with at least 
the rudiments of geography, astronomy, aud mathematics was 
nearly as common as reading and writing. Their numerous 
corporations accustomed the middle class to the business of law 
and police ; and in a population where no one was idle, few lost 
the feeling of self-respect.— British and Foreign Review. 



Transformation of the Locust. — In the summer, towards even- 
ing, it ii common to see on the trunks of trees, reeds, or any 
upright thing, a heavy looking, hump-backed, brown beetle, an 
inch and a half long, with a scaly coat; clawed, lobster-like 
legs, and a somewhat dirty aspect, which is easily accounted for, 
when at the foot of the tree a little hole is visible in the turf, 
whence he has lately credit. I have sometimes carefully carried 
these home, aud watched with great interest the poor locust 
" shuffle off his mortal," or rather earthly coil, and emerge into a 
new world. The first symptom is the opening of a small slit 
which appears in the back of his coat, between the shoulders, 
through which, as it slowly gapes wider, a pale, soft, silky-look- 
ing texture is seen below, throbbing and heaving backwards and 
forwards. Presently a fine square head, with two right red eyes, 
has disengaged itself, and in process of time (for the transforma- 
tion goes on almost imperceptibly^ this is followed by the libera- 
tion of a portly body and a conclusion ; after which the brown 
leggings are pulled off like boots, and a pale, cream-coloured, 
weak, soft creature very slowly and very tenderly walks away 
from his former self, which remains standing entire, like the coat 
of mail of a warrior of old, ready to be encased in the cabinets of 
the curious; the shelly plates of the eyes that are gone, looking 
after their lost contents with a sad lack of " speculation" iu 
them. On the back of the new-born creature lie two small bits 
of membrane, doubled and crumpled up in a thousand puckers, 
like a Limerick glove in a walnut-shell. These begin to enfold 
themselves, aud gradually spread smoothly out into two large, 
beautiful, opal-coloured wings, which by the following morning 
have become clearly transparent, whilst the body has acquired 
its proper hard consistency and dark colour ; aud when placed 
on a gum-tree, the happy thing soon begins its whirring, creaking, 
chirruping song, which continues, with little intermission, as 
long as its happy harmless life. — Note* ami Sketches of New 
South Hales, by Mrs. Charles Meredith. 



Patron and Client. — The words Patron and Client are now 
used by us, but, like many other Roman terms, not in the original 
or proper sense. Domiuus and Sen- us, Master and Slave, were 
terms placed in opposition to one another, like Patron aud Client, 
Patronus and CI i ens. A master who manumitted his sluve be- 
came his Patronus, a kind of father (for Patrouus is derived from 
Pater, father) : the slave was called the Patron's Libert us, freed- 
man; and all Liberti were included in the class Libertiui. 
Libertiuus is another example of a word which we use (libertine), 
though not in the Roman sense. But the old Roman relation of 
Patron and Client was not this. Originally the heads of dis- 
tinguished families had a number of retainers or followers who 
were called their Clients, a word which perhaps originally meatit 
those who were bound to hear and to obey a common head. It 
was a tradition that when Atta Claudius, the head of the great 
Ol audi an Gens, who were Sabines, was admitted among ttte Ro- 



man Patricians, he brought with him a large body of clients to 
whom land was given north of the Anio, now the Teverone. 
(Livius, 2, c. 16; Suetonius, Tiberius, c 1.) The precise rela- 
tion of the early clients to their leaders is one of the most difficult 
questions in Roman History, and much too extensive to be dis- 
cussed here. It was fhe Patron's duty to protect his clients and 
to give them his aid and advice in all matters that required it : 
the clients owed to the Patron respect and obedience and many 
duties which are tolerably well ascertained. Long after the 
strictness of the old relation had been relaxed, the name con- 
tinued and some of the duties, as we see in this sentence of 
Marius, where the Patron claimed to be exempted from giving 
evidence against his client In the last periods of the Republic 
and under the Empire, Patron was sometimes simply used as 
Protector, adviser, defender, aud Client to express one who looked 
up to another as his friend and adviser, particularly in all mat- 
ters where his legal rights were concerned. Great men under the 
later Republic sometimes became the Patrons of particular states 
or cities, and looked after their interests at Rome. We have 
adopted the word Client in the sense of one who goes to an attor- 
ney or solicitor for his legal odvice, but with us the client pays 
for the advice, aud the attorney is not called his patron. A 
modern patron b one who ]jatrouizes, protects, gives nis counte- 
nance to an individual, or to some association of individuals, but 
frequently lie merely gives his couutenance or his name, that 
being as much as can be asked from him or as much as he will 
give. — Note by O. Long, in the Civil Wars of Borne, afc., in 
Knight's Weekly Volume. 



Soil indicated by Vegetation. — In the general examination of 
the land, the growth of the trees aud copses, if there be any on 
the land, their species, their soundness, the elevation of their 
branches, and the cleanness of their bark, are among the surest 
marks of the quality of the soil. The plants which grow spon- 
taneously there, even those that are injurious, afford also a valu- 
able indication ; but it is not sufficient that they grow isolated 
and slowly, but, on the contrary, their increase should be rapid 
and abundant. Thus the corn, ox field thistle (terra tula arvensis). 
indicates a rich and productive soil ; the butter-bur, or great 
petasites (husihgo petasites), an argillaceous soil ; the coltsfoot 
(tussilagofarfara), and the bramble, a marly soil ; the common 
chickweed and pimpernel (alsine media), the common sow-thistle 
(sonckus oleraceus), the charlock (sinapis arvensis), grow on soft 
and tenacious lands ; while the wild radish (raphanus rapha- 
nistrum) grows in dry and poor lands. The black raedick, or 
nonsuch (medicago bepultna), is a sure sign of the marly quality 
of the soil in which it is found. — Von Thaer's Syttctn of 
Agriculture* 



Effects of Cold in* Russia. — I have witnessed the effects of 
cold too long endured upon the little postilions who are barba- 
rously exposed to it in the winter season at St. Petersburg. The 
lads bear it for a time, as they sit on their horses, clapping their 
hands and singing to keep up their courage ; but this fails them 
by degrees, aud finally, benumbed, they fall from their saddles 
in a state of tortior, which nothing but rolling them in the snow 
will overcome. There is seldom a fete given at St Petersburg in 
the extreme cold weather that occurrences of this sort are not 
recorded. In very cold nights the sentries are frequently trozeu 
to death, if not relieved at short intervals. As long as nervous 
excitement con be kept up, the resistance of cold is very great. 
General Piroffsky informed me, that in the expedition to Khiva, 
notwithstanding the iutenseiiess of the cold, the soldiers marched 
along singing, with the breasts of their coats opeu, but only as 
long as they were flushed with the hopes of success. Where 
there is nothing to excite, and where exposure to cold takes place 
under the common routine of parade, its depressing effects are 
lamentably felt by those long exposed to it In the time of the 
Grand-Duke Constantino, a regiment of horse was marched from 
St re lua to St. Petersburg, a distance of twelve miles and up- 
wards. He marched at their head at a foot pace all the way. 
lie had well wadded himself, and smeared his face over with 
oil. It was the gratification of a whim to expose the soldiers to 
a great degree of cold. They arrived at the square before the 
palace, and were dismissed to their barracks. The following day 
one-third of the regiment was in the hospital, attacked by nervous 
fever, of which many died. There was no stimulus of necessity 
iu this case; but the moral feeling aggravated the physical suf- 
fering. — Sir George Lefevre't Apology for the Nerves. 



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No. I.— Introduction. 

Th* influences of Nature have material! to work upon 
in all human hearts. In some, they suddenly light 
up feelings of love and joy, hy the force of vicissitude 
and contrast. Milton's dweller in the populous city 
$ocb into its suburbs, and rejoices in a new life : 

" At one who long in populous city pent, 
Where houses thick, and sewers, annoy the air, 



no. 821. 



Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe 
Among the pleasant villages and farms 
Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight, 
The smell of grain, the tedded grass, or kine. 
Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound.'* 

Gray's sick roan rises from his bed, and finds " para- 
dise" in the familiar things which he once passed 
unheeded • 

Vol. XIV.— D 



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" See the wretch that long has tost 
On the thorny bed of pain, 
At length repair his vigour lost, 
And breathe and walk again : 
The meanest floweret of the vale, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies, 
To him are opening paradise.' 1 

The influences which are accidentally called forth by 
change of circumstances in some men, may, by culti- 
vation of the right kind, become abiding principles in 
many, making them wiser and happier. Campbell 
truly says — 

" God has not given 
This passion to the heart of man in vain, 
For earth's green face, UY untainted air of heaven, 
And all the bliss of Natures rustic reign/' 

Coleridge, dramatically painting a prisoner in his 
dungeon, who i3 mournfully describing the process by 
which we seek to cure our offending brothers, makes 
him exclaim, 

'• With other ministrations thou, O Nature! 
Heal est thy wandering and distempered child : 
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets; 
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters ! 
Till he relent and can no more endure 
To he a jarring and a dissonant thing 
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
By the benignant touch of love and beauty/ 1 

~~ And 60 it is with those who cultivate these "soft 
influences," and desire to be purified under the *' touch 
of love and beauty." More and more do they become 
happy in their subjection to Nature's •• ministrations," 
till at last they reach that state, which, although best 
described, because most frequently realized, by the true 
poet, is not confined to those wno have " tne vision 
and the faculty divine :" 

M A thing of beauty is a joy for ever : 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o er-darkened ways 
Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid- forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms. 
And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead : 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaveu s brink." 

Keats. 

And yet how many, in whom these pure and gentle 
joys might be awakened, pass through the world and 
know them not ! 

"At noon, when, by the forest's edge, 
He lay between the brauches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart, — he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky." 

So Wordsworth describes one whom "Nature could 



not touch," though he and Nature " had often been 
together." How is this coldness and dcadness to be 
remedied ? 

First, we would say, learn to observe. The nabit of 
observation, even in its humblest form of exercise, is a 
power and a pleasure. He who can distinguish a lime- 
tree from an elm, has learnt something more than he 
who has marked no differences in branch or leaf. We 
become naturalists in a large sense of the word— we do 
not mean collectors, or classifiers, but having some 
exact acquaintance with the manifold works and work- 
ings of Nature — by slow degrees, almost impercepti- 
bly. We become so chiefly through association. 
When we have reached that condition of feeling and 
of knowledge in which no "thing of beauty" can pass 
unheeded without calling up some association, then we 
are learning truly to commune with Nature, suffering 
her to find her way into our hearts. Who are the best 
guides to this true knowledge of Nature ? Who are to 
make us the wiser and happier in our knowledge of 
Nature ? We answer, unhesitatingly, the lay-priests of 
Nature — the Poets. 

The Poets, as a class, are the truest naturalists. They 
teach us nothing of nomenclature and classification ; 
but they teach us something far higher— the relations 
of the materia] world to the spiritual. They cannot do 
this effectually without being the most accurate of 
observers ; for we should otherwise see that their images 
were not true. Seeing this, their analogies would fall 
dead upon our minds. Nor will mere generalizations 
satisfy us, such as we find in those half- poets who have 
dwelt not in fields and solitary places, but who attempt 
to describe through the aid of what has been described 
by others — book-images. Take an example of laboured 
and classical generalization, as compared with precise 
and original observation. Gray, in many respects a 
real poet, thus describes the Spring, with an ode of 
Horace in his mind : — 

" Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
Fair Venus* train, appear, 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 
And wake the purple year." 

Shakspbri, with the most minute accuracy, raised into 
the highest beauty by the power of association, groups 
the spring-flowers ; — 

" Daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 

The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 

Or Cytherea's breath." 

Shakspcre was a poet-naturalist. So Chaucer. So 
Spenser. So, especially, those who have taken the 
highest rank in our own generation. 

Wc propose to walk forth, in all seasons, with these 
interpreters of Nature. They, for the most part, look 
upon this fair earth with a healthy spirit of gladness. 
It sometimes they have mournful notes, they are still 
such as Nature mingles with her happiest moods, and 
therefore are they not painful. We will look, too, with 
these companions, upon man in his holiday hours— 
44 few and far between," — but still not to be wholly 
counted amongst the glad things that are past. One of 
the poets of gladness, happy Robert Herrick, says — 

" I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, 
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers ; 
I sing of may-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes.*' 

This is, in the spirit of poetry, which is that of love, 
to unite the merry heart of man with the all-gushing 
gladness of birds and flowers. May their union be 
deeper and closer ! May the sphere of human gladness 
be extended far and wide, in the awakening feeling of 
Love which has too long slept ! In the noble words of a 
revered living poet, who has done more than anv man 



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to teach us how the ministrations of Nature lead us to a 
deep sympathy for all our fellows, we invite the^oung 
and the old, — those to whom the face of creation is ever 
open, and those who seldom look upon the smiling 
aspect of field and forest and river,— to go forth, or to 
prepare themselves to go forth, to look upon Nature 
as tne poets have looked upon her : 

u Then trust yourselves abroad 
To range her blooming bowers and spacious fields, 
Where on the labours of the happy throng 
She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 
Sprinkled, — be our companions while we track 
Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
"While, free as air, o'er printless sands \vp march, 
Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
Roaming or resting under grateful shade, 
In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
Where living things, and things inanimate, 
Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 
And speak to social Reason's inner sense, 
With inarticulate language. 

For the Man 
Who, in this spirit, communes witli the Forms 
Of Nature, who with understanding heart 
Doth know and love such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must feel 
The joy of that pure principle of Love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened down, 
A holy tenderness pervade his frame, 
His sanity of reason not impaired, 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear. 
From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 
And seeks for good; and finds the good he seeks : 
Until abhorrence and contempt uie tilings 
He only knows by name ; and if he hear, 
From other mouths, the language which ihey speak, 
He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
No feeling, which can overcome his love.'* 

Wordsworth. 



Means fur securing the Public Credit in the Sixteenth Century. 
— At last, after much toil and many mortifications, Gresham got 
his government to agree to a plan of punctual payment, which 
would keep up their credit and save them from the heavy fee- 
penny in future. " If this be followed up," said he, a I do not 



doubt but in two years to bring the King's majesty wholly out of 
debt : whidi I pray God to send me life to see !" To accomplish 
this blessed end he proposed that the government should pay 
him weekly 1(200/. or 1300/., to be secretly received by one 
individual, so that it might be kept secret, and he might trust 
therein. Having this money punctually paid, he would take up 
at Antwerp, every day, 200/. or 300/. by exchange. " And thus 
doing/* he continues, "it shall not be perceived, nor shall it he. 
an occasion to make the exchange fall, for that the money .shall 
be taken up iu my name. And so by these means, in working 
by deliberation anu time, the merchants 1 turn also shall be 
served. As also this should bring all merchants out of suspi- 
cion, who do nothing to payment of the king's debts, and will 
not stick to say that ere the payment of the king's debts be made 
it will bring down the exchange to 13#. 3</., which I trust never 
to see that day. So that by this you may perceive, if that I do 
take up every day but 2007. sterling, it will amount in one year 
to 72,000/. ; and the king's majesty oweth here at this present 
108,000/., with the interest money that was prolonged afore this 
time. So that by these means, in two years, things will be com- 
passed accordingly to my purpose set forth; as also by this 
means you shall neither trouble merchant-adventurer, rior stapler, 
nor merchant-stranger." (S//-y/w.) Rut as a supplement to this 
thing, Gresham, in the same letter to the Duke of Northumber- 
land, passionately recommended a measure which must have 
troubled the merchants, and which can be considered only as a 
gross error in public economy. This recommendation was to 
seize instantly all the lead iu the kingdom, to make a staple of 
it, and prohibit the exportation of any lead* for fiv'e years to 
come. This, thought and said Gresham, would make the price 
of the commodity rise at Antwerp, and the king might feed that 
market with lead as it was needed from time to time, and at his 
own price. It was a suggestion worthy of a Turkish pasha; yet 
it has been applauded by a recent biographer : and Gresham 
(whose ignorance is more excusable) dwelt upon it with a sort 
of rapture, telling the Duke of Northumberland that by these 
combined means, or by the daily payment of 200/. and the 
seizure and monopoly of all lead, he would keep the money of 
England within the realm, and extricate the king from the debts 
iu which his father and the Duke of Somerset had involved him ; 
and that his grace would do his majesty such service as never 
duke did in England, to the renown of his house for ever. Nor- 
thumberland, high-handed as he was, shrank from the daring 
and unpopular step of seizing and monopolizing the lead ; but 
he adopted Gresham's advice as to the payments of the money, 
and Sir Edmund Peck ham, treasurer of the mint, had orders to 
nay weekly to Thomas Gresham 1052/. 8«. id. This, however, 
lasted for only eight weeks, or rather less, and then, according to 
the council-book, Gresham was 'given to understand that the 
payment (stated here not at 1052/. 8*. id., but at 1200/.) which 
he was wont to receive weekly was stopped, because that manner 
of exchange was not profitable for the Icing's majesty. Yet, by 
means which have not (all) been very clearly shown, Gresham 
succeeded in raising the rate of exchange in favour of England, 
and in making the pound sterling, which had passed there for 
16*., rise on the Bourse or exchange of Antwerp to 19s. &/. This 
he brought about in less than nine months after writing the letter 
to the Duke of Northumberland in which he recommended his 
grace to seize the lead. He congratulated himself on his great 
success; but still the greatest benefit he saw in it was that this 
rising of the exchange would occasion all our gold and silver to 
remain within the realm. Yet some of the means which he says 
himself he recommended and got adopted for the obtaining of 
this desirable end are as objectionable in principle, and almost 
as tyrannical, as the lead project could have been. Twice 
during the remainder of the short reign of Edward the Sixth the 
English merchant-fleet bound for Autwerp, which always sailed 
at fixed periods of the year, was detained in port when on the 
point of sailing, and the proprietors of the merchandise compelled 
to engage, o:i their arrival at Antwerp, to furnish the state with 
certain sums of money, to be repaid within three months iu 
London, at a rate of exchange which the government itself fixed, 
and which it made as high as it possibly could. By this most 
irregular and oppressive process a loan of 40,000/. was obtained 
of the merchant-adventurers in 1552 ; and in 1553 it should 
appear that the lords of the conncil were "through with the 
staplers" for 25,000/., and with the merchant-adventurers for 
36,164/. 16*. %d. ; while by the same compulsory processes t he 
exchange-value of the pound sterling was raised at Autwerp. 
—Life of Sir T. Gresham, in Kmyht's Weekly f'olume. 

D 2 



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[January 13, 



[Hudibraa and SidropheLj 



HUDIBRAS.— No. X. 



Astrology, in Butler's time, was a flourishing science : 
it had been so for a long period before, and continued 
so in spite of the castigation administered by him to itB 
then most eminent professors. Dr. Dee, the astro- 
loger, had been the friend and counsellor of Queen 
Elizabeth, who indeed gave him a sort of ecclesiastical 
preferment, making him warden of Manchester Col- 
lege. Under James, the believer in witchcraft, there 
was a succession of astrologers; but during the 
stormy times which followed there was a galaxy — 
Gadbury, Wharton, Vincent Wine (whose almanac was 
continued to a very recent period), and William Lilly, 
all violent opponents of each other. Lilly was a par- 
tisan of the king's at first, and his opinion was sought, 
with a fee of 20?., as to the propriety of agreeing to the 
propositions of the Parliament, while the Parliament- 
arians employed him to furnish them with "perfect 
knowledge of the chiefest concerns of France, a ser- 
vice for which a payment of 50/. in cash and 100/. per 
annum can be considered only a very moderate remu- 
neration. With the ruin of the king's cause he be- 
came a decided anti- royalist, and pretended to have 
foretold the battle of Naseby, having written under 
June, 1645, " If now we fight, victory steals upon us ;" 
a not very definite or unsafe prediction. His chief 
business, however, was the calculation of nativities 



and the recovery of stolen goods. He lived till the 
restoration, and solicited to be again employed as a 
prophet, but was rejected, more from political motives 
probably than from disbelief in his pretensions. He 
died in 1681, and was buried at Walton-upon-Thames. 
Such a character could not but form a capital subject 
for Butler's satirical powers, and he has accordingly 
treated it with consummate skill and vigour, but still 
taking; infinite pains that the entire should not be indi- 
vidual, but general lashing — the dupes as well as the 
practisers. 

. " Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
Of being cheated, as to cheat ; 
As lookers on feel most delight, 
That least perceive a juggler's slight ; 
And still, the less they understand, 
The more th* admire his slight of band. 



Others still gape t' anticipate 
The cabinet-designs of Fate, 
Apply to wizards, to foresee 
What shall, and what shall never be. 
And as those vultures do forebode, 
Believe events prove bad or good. 
A flam more senseless than the rog'ry 
Of old aruspicy and aug'ry, 
That out of garbages of cattle 
Presag'd th' events of truce or battle : 



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From flight of birds, or chickens- pecking, 
Success of great'st attempts wou'd reckon : 
Tho' cheats, yet more intelligible, 
Than those that with the stars do fribble.'* 

In this, the third Canto of Part II., Hudibras begins 
to revolve the determination to which he had come 
respecting his self-inflicted punishment in the last 
canto, and is fearful of the consequences " if she [the 
widow] should find he swore untrue ;" " for," says he to 
Halpho — 

" if iii our account we vary, 

Or but in circumstance miscarry ; 
Or if she put me to strict proof, 
And make me pull my doublet off, 
To show, by evident record 
Writ ou my skiu, I 're kept mr word* 
How can I e'er expect to have her, 
Having demurr'd unto her favour ; 
But faith, and love, and honour lost, 
Shall be reduced t' a knight o' th' post V 9 
Me wishes to 

" find by necromantic art 
How far the dest'uies take my part ;'• 

and then Ralpho informs him of the character and skill 
of Sidrophel. 

** Quoth Ralph, Not far from hence doth dwell 

A cunning man, hight Sidrophel, 

That deals in Destiny's dark counsels, 

And sage opinions of the moon sells ; 

To whom all people, far and near, 

On deep importances repair ; 

When brass and pewter hap to stray, 

And liueu slinks out of the way ; 

When geese and pulleu are seduc'd, 

And sows of sucking pigs are choiu'd ; 

When cattle feel indisposition, 

And need th' opinion of physician ; 

When murrain reigns iu nogs or sheep, 

And chickens languish of the pip ; 

When yeast and outward means do fail, 

And have no pow'r to work on ale ; 

Wheii butter does refuse to come, 

And love proves cross and humoursome." 

Hudibras declares his liking for the proposition, but 
doubts whether " saints have freedom*' to make such 
use of sorcerers. These scruples Ralpho removes by 
a long detail of ridiculous wonders, and urges— 
" Do not our great reformers use 
This Sidrophel to forebode news V* 

which quiets the knight's conscience, and be resolves 
to pay the astrologer a visit. 

The astrologer himself is then described at full 
length : 

" He had been long t'wards matnematics, 

Optics, philosophy, and statics, 

Magic, horoscopy, astrology ; 

And was old dog at physiology : 

But, as a dog that turns the spit, 

Bestirs himself, and plies his feet 

To climb the wheel, but all in vain, 

His own weight brings him down again : 

And still he 's in the selfsame place 

Where at bis setting out be was : 

So in the circle of the arts, 

Did he advance his nat'ral parts ; 

Till falling back still for retreat, 

He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat : 

For as those fowls that live in water 

Are never wet, he did but smarter ; 

What e'er he labour'd to appear, 

His understanding still was clear. 

Yet none a deeper kuowledge boasted, 

Since old Hodge Bacon and Bob Urosted. 

Th' intelligible world he knew, 

And all men dreamt on 't to be true : 



That in this world there '« not a wurt 

That has not there a counterpart ; 

Nor can there on the face of ground 

An individual beard be found, 

That has not iu that foreign nation 

A fellow of the selfsame fashion ; 

So cut, so colour'd, and so ciuTd, 

As those are in uY inferior world. 

H' had read Dee's Prefaces before, 

The Dev'l and Euclid o'er and o'er ; 

And all th' intrigue 'twixt him and Kelly, 

Lescus and th* Emperor wou'd tell ye ; 

But with the moon was more familiar 

Than e'er was almanac well-wilier ; 

Her secrets understood so clear, 

That some believed he had been there, 

Knew when she was in fittest mood 

For cutting corns, or letting blood ; 

When for anointing scabs. or itches, 

Or to the bum applying leeches ; 

When sows and bitches may be spay'd, 

And iu what sign best cyder s made ; 

Whether the wane be, or increase, 

Best to set garlic, or sow pease : 

Who first found out the man i' th* moon, 

That to the ancients was unknown ; 

How many dukes, and earls, and peers 

Are in the planetary spheres ; 

Their airy empire, and command, 

Their sev'ral strengths by sea and land ; 

What factions th' have, and what they drive at 

In public vogue, or what iu private; 

With what designs aud interest* 

Each party manages contests. 

He made an instrument to know 

If the moon shine at full or no ; 

That would, as soon as e'er she shone, straight 

Whether 't were duy or night demonstrate ; 

Tell what her d'meter t' an inch is, 

And prove that the 's not made of green-cheese 

it would demonstrate that the Man iu 

The Moon 's a sea Mediterranean ; 

And that it is no dog or bitch, 

That stands behind him at his breech ; 

But a huge Caspian Sea, or lake 

With arms, which men for legs mistake; 

How large a gulf his tail composes, 

And what a goodly bay his nose is ; 

How many German leagues by th' scale 

Cape Snout 's from Promontory Tail. 

He made a planetary gin, 

Which rats wou'd run their own heads in, 

And come on purpose to be taken, 

Without th* expense of cheese or bacon ; 

With lute-strings he would counterfeit 

Maggots that crawl on dish or meat : 

Quote moles and spots on any place 

C th' body, by the index face : 



Cure warts and corns, with application 

Of med'eines to th' imagination ; 

Fright agues into dogs, and scare 

With rhymes the tooth-ache and catarrh : 

Chase evil spirits away by dint 

Of sickle, horse-shoe, hollow-flint ; 

Spit fire out of a walnut shell, 

Which made the Roman slaves rebel ; 

And fire a mine in China here, 

With sympathetic gunpowder. 

He knew whatsoever 's to be known, 

But much more than he knew would own." 

After a few more lines devoted to the ridicule of the 
newly established Royal Society, he proceeds with 
the character of the astrologer's assistant " hight 
Whachum." Under this character, as we have al- 
ready remarked, he chastises the person who pub- 
lished a paltry imitation of his poem, but we only give 
that part here which completes the 'Astrologer :' 



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[January 18, 



" His bus'ness wag to pump and wheedle, 
And men with their own Keys unriddle, 
To make tbem to themselves give answers, 
For which they pay the necromancers; 
To fetch and carry intelligence, 
Of whom, and what, and where, and whence, 
And all discoveries disperse 
'Mong the whole pack of conjurers ; 
What cut-nurses have left with them, 
For the rignt owners to redeem : 
And what they dare not vent, find out, 
To gain themselves and th' art repute ; 
Draw figures, schemes, and horoscopes, 
Of Newgate, Bridewell, brokers 1 shops, 
Of thieves ascendant in the cart* 
And find out all by rules of art : 
Which way a serving-man, that 's run 
With cloths or money away, is gone ; 
Who pick'd a fob at holding- fort b, 
And where a watch for half the worth 
May be redeem 'd ; or stolen plate 
Restored at conscionable rate. 
Beside all this, he lerv'd his master 
In quality of poetaster , 
And rhymes appropriate could make 
To ev'ry month i* th' almanac ; 
When terms begin and end could tell, 
With their returns, in doggerel : 
When tlie exchequer opes and shuts, 
And sowgelder with safety cuts ; 
When men may eat and drink their fill, 
And when be temp'rate if they will, 
When use, and when abstain from vice, 
Figs, grapes, phlebotomy, and spice. 
And as in prisons mean rogues beat 
Hemp for the service of the great ; 
So Whachum beat his dirty brains 
T" advance his master's fame and gains ; 
And like the devils oracles, 
Putinto dogg'rel rhymes his spells 
Which over ev'ry month's blank-page 
I* th' almanac strange bilks presage." 

Many of these characteristics were preserved in alma- 
nacs till within a few years, and some, we believe, yet 
exist. 

The Knight and Squire now turn their steeds towards 
the mansion of the astrologer, who perceives lliein 
coming, and addresses his satellite : 

" Whachum (quoth he), look yonder, some 
To try or use our art are come : 
The one 's the learned knight ; seek out 
And pump 'em what they come about. 
Whachum advane'd with all submissness 
T' accost 'em, but much more their bus'ness : 
He held a stirrup while the knight 
From leathern Barebones did alight; 
And taking from his hand the bridle, 
Approach'd the dark squire to unriddle : 
He gave him first the time o' day, 
And welcom'd him, as he might say : 
He ask'd him whence they came, aud whither 
Their bus'ness lay t Quoth Ralpho, Hither. 

Did you not lose? Quoth Ralpho, Nay ; 

Quoth Whachum, Sir, I meant your way f 

Your knight quoth Ralpho, Is a lover, 

And pains intolerable doth suffer : 

For lovers' hearts are not their own hearts, 

Nor lights, nor lungs, and so forth downwards. 

What time 1 Quoth Ralpho, Sir, too long, 

Three years it off and on has hung 

Quoth he, 1 mean what time o' the day 't is ; 
Quoth Ralpho, between seven and eight 'tis. 
Why theu (quoth Whachum) my small art 
Tells me the dame has a hard heart ; 
Or great estate— — Quoth Ralph, a jointure, 
Which makes him have so hot a miud t' her." 

The Knight, on being admitted, is kept " at bay" until 
the astrologer has the knowledge acquired by his 



assistant imparted to him ; he then addresses his 
visitor : — 

" Sir, you '11 excuse 

This rudeness 1 am fore'd to use, 

It is a scheme and face of heaven, 

As th' aspects are disposed this even, 

I was contemplating upon 

When you arriv'd, but now I 've done/' 
The dialogue of this worthy pair, and its conse- 
quences, we reserve for the next paper. 

TOM CORYAT. 

[Concluded from p. 15.] 

Coryat published his * Crudities' in 1611, and in the 
next year tt He undertook to travel," as Fuller has it, 
" unto the East Indies by land, mounted on an horse 
with ten toes, being excellently qualified for such a 
journey, for his rare dexterity (so properly as con- 
sisting most in manual signs) in interpreting and an- 
swering the dumb tokens of nations whose language 
he did not understand. Besides, such his patience in 
all distresses, that in some sort he might seem cooled 
with heat, fed with fasting, and refreshed with weari- 
ness. All expecting his return with more knowledge 
(though not more wisdom), he ended hisi earthly pil- 
grimage in the midst of his Indian travail, about as I 
collect the year of our Lord 1616." 

Although he did not return to publish his Eastern 
journal, he transmitted " from the Mogul's court" 6omc 
short notices of what he had seen, and some others 
have been preserved by Purchas in his ' Pilgrims.* In 
this second journey he abates nothing of his inquisitivc- 
ness. At Constantinople he sees as much as he can 
of the religious practices of the Turks ; at •• the danc- 
ing of the Darvises," he says, " I could not chuse but 
admire ;" and he describes it also. He manages, too, 
to get admitted to witness many of the Jewish cere- 
monials, which he likewise admires. He went also on 
the day before Good Friday to the. monastery of the 
Franciscan friars in the same town, " where at mid- 
night I saw certain fellows prostrate themselves in the 
middle of the choir, directly before the high altar, and 
there, for at least an hour and a half, whip themselves 
very cruelly ; so bitter chastisement did they endure 
that I could scarce behold them with dry eyes." 
They lashed their naked shoulders and backs with 
" certain napkins, at the end whereof were sitters, and 
again at the end of those were enclosed certain little 
sharp pieces of iron, made like the straight part of the 
rowels of a spur, which at the very first blow that it 
laid upon the skin did easily draw blood/' These 
lashes they laid on " in a certain order,*' and with good 
effect, while '• a certain fellow, with a cloth steeped in 
vinegar, wiped away the blood that it should not 
rankle." Coryat at first supposed they were some of 
the friars themselves, " but therein I erred, for they 
love to spare the flesh, though it be otherwise reported 
of them.*' These flagellants were in fact galley-slaves, 
who thus stood proxy for the friars, on condition of 
having their legal punishment remitted. Our author 
somewhat irreverently suggests whether the friars 
must not " go to heaven by proxy too." While he was 
at Constantinople a fire broke out, at which " the hurt 
was not so great as it was feared to have been, for 
there was not above fifty houses burnt ;" and he notices 
that •' it is the custom, whensoever any fire riseth in 
the city, to hang up him in whose house it beginneth ; 
as now a cook, in whose house it began, was hanged 
presently after the fire began.*' 

From Constantinople he visited various parts of 
Greece, and went to see what remained of Troy, of 
which he gives a long account ; and relates too how 
Master Robert Rugge, observing with what diligence 
he had been engaged from his first arrival in examin- 



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ing all the remains of antiquity, resolved to create him 
the "first English knight of Troy.*' Whereat the 
" two poor Turks that stood but a little way from us 
when he drew his naked sword, thought verily he 
meant to have cut off my head for some notorious vil- 
lainy that I had perpetrated." He also gives •' the 
witty extempore verses of Master Rugge," and his own 
in reply, with "an extemporal oration he delivered 
standing upon a high stone ;" all which honest Purchas 
has printed because they may " serve to resolve and 
thaw the most frozen spirit of severe gravity or stu- 
pidest stoic; melting some delight, if not extorting 
laughter from him." He was so delighted with his 
visit to Troy '8 ruins that he declares on leaving them 
" these notable things that I have seen in Troy are so 
worthy the observation, that I would not for five hun- 
dred pounds but I had seen them ; and had I not seen 
them now, I think I should have taken a journey out of 
England to see the same. Therefore let me advise all 
my countrymen that mean to travel into the world for 
observation, to see this famous place in their travels, 
as being far the most worthiest of all'the ruined places 
in the world that arc not inhabited." He visited Jeru- 
salem, where he received with as much faith as Cha- 
teaubriand all the monks' tales about the sacred locali- 
ties. Thence he went to all he could find'of the Seven 
Churches, and various other places in the Holy Land. 
After he had seen as much as he could, he turned his 
face towards India. When at Asmere, and afterwards 
at Agra, at the court of the Great Mogul, he wrote 
letters home which were published in England. When 
he wrote, he had been three years and some odd days 
from home, during which time he had learned four 
languages more — Italian, Arabic, Turkish, and Persian. 
•' 1 spent in my journey betwixt Jerusalem and this 
Mogul's court fifteen months and odd days ; all which 
way I traversed afoot, but with divers pairs of shoes, 
having been such a peripatetic as I doubt whether 
you ever heard of the like in your life ; for the total 
way betwixt Jerusalem and the Mogul's court con- 
taineth two thousand and seven hundred English miles." 
And he only expended, •' in all his ten months' travels 
betwixt Aleppo and the Mogul's court, but three 
pounds sterling, yet fared reasonable well every day ;" 
and of these three pounds he " was cozened of no less 
than ten shillings sterling, by certain lewd Christians 
of the Armenian nation. 1 ' He is full of admiration of 
the splendour of the Mogul's court and at his own 
treatment there. *' I have rid too upon an elephant 
since I came here, and am determined (by God's leave) 
to have my picture expressed in my next book, sitting 
upon an elephant ;" which was done for him as a fron- 
tispiece to tne Letters. His acquirements in the lan- 
guages he did not suffer to be useless. Having made 
sufficient progress in Persian, he composed in it an 
oration which he delivered to the Mogul, who, having 
listened to it from a window, presented him with a 
gratuity " which countervailed ten pounds of our Eng- 
lish money;" and he adds, " never had I more need 
of money in all my life than at that time, for in truth 
I had but twenty shillings sterling left in my purse." 
Rather a poor prospect in the midst of India; but 
Thomas is, after all, a prudent man in pecuniary mat- 
ters : see, in writing to his mother, what a business- 
like survey fee takes of his finances : " Since I came into 
this country I have received for benevolences twenty 
marks sterling, saving two shillings eight-pence ;" and 
he has " at this present, in the city of Agra, about 
twelve pounds sterling, which, according to my manner 
of living by the way, at twopence sterling a day (for 
with that proportion I ran live pretty well, such is the 
cheapness of all eatable things in Asia— drinkable 
things costing nothing, for seldom do I drink in my 
pilgrimage any other liquor than pure water), will 



maintain me very completely three years in my travels 
with meat, drink, and clothes." Being so well pro- 
vided for, he tells her he proposes to remain out on his 
pilgrimage four years longer, when he ** hopes to kneel 
before her with effusions of tears for joy." " Sweet 
mother," he goes on in his high-flown way, " pray let 
not this wound your heart that I say four years hence, 
and not before ; I humbly beseech you, even upon the 
knees of my heart, with all submissive supplications, to 
pardon me for my long absence." 

Among his letters from the Mogul's court is one of 
special note : it is addressed •' to the Right Generous, 
Jovial, and Mercurial Sireniacks that meet the first 
Friday of every month, at the sign of the Mermaid, 
in Bread-street, .in London" — the Olympus of clubs. 
The letter is in the highest strain of Euphuism ; and 
is most memorable for its tail, wherein he desires them 
to "remember the recommendation of my dutiful 
respects to all those whose names I have here ex- 
pressed," among which are "that famous antiquary 
Sir Thomas Cotton ; Mr. John Donne ; Mr. John 
Hoskins, alias Equinoctial Pasty-crust Counsellor, at 
his chamber in the Middle Temple ; Master Benjamin 
Jonson, poet, at his chamber at the Black-friars; Mr. 
Samuel Purkas, the great collector of the lucubrations 
of sundry classical authors; Mr. Inigo Jones;" and 
lastly, "all the booksellers in Pauls Church-yard." 
We are tempted by its straightforwardness to extract 
a curious passage out of his letter to Lawrence Wbit- 
aker. Alter requesting him to convey a letter he 
encloses " to mine uncle Williams," he added, •• You 
may do me a kind office to desire him (with such conve- 
nient terms and pathetical persuasions as your discre- 
tion shall dictate and suggest unto you) to remember 
me as his poor industrious peregrinating kinsman, 
nearest unto him in blood oi all the people in the 
world ; to remember me t I say, with some competent gra- 
tuity, if God should call him out of the world before I 
return into my native country." 

But the time was at hand when no gratuity of man 
would be needed by him. He had nearly reached the 
end of all his peregrinations. In the 'Voyage of the 
Reverend Thomas Terry, Chaplain to the Rt Hon. Sir 
Thomas Rowe, Lord Ambassador to the Great Mogul/ 
we have a rather minute account of his last days. 
Coryat was, while at the Mogul's court, says Terry, 
'• for some months with my Lord Ambassador, during 
which time he was either my chamber- fellow or tent- 
mate, which gave me full acquaintance of him ;" and 
accordingly he enlarges more than enough about some 
of his doings^ all of which we will leave except a little 
circumstance that will serve as a pendant to that Mogul 
oration of his. That was in Persian, the language of 
the court ; but he had also acquired " a great mastery 
in the Indostan, or more vulgar language," and must 
try his skill in it. Now, says Terry, "there was a 
woman, a laundress, belonging to my Lord Ambassador's 
house, who had such a freedom and liberty of speech, 
that she would sometimes scold, brawl, and rail from 
the sun-rising to the sun-set ; one day he undertook 
her in her own language, and by eight of the clock in 
the morning so silenced her that she had not one word 
more to speak." 

But he began to think it time he should leave this 
too tempting court : •' he told us there were great ex- 
pectations in England of the large accounts he should 
give of his travels after his return ;" and he had much 
work before him. For it seems "he had resolved (if 
God had spared his life) to have wandered up and 
down the world, as sometime Ulysses did, and though 
not so long as he, yet ten full years at least, before his 
return home, in which time he resolved to see Tartaria 
in the vast parts thereof, with as much as he could of 
China, and those other large places and provinces 



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interposed betwixt East India and China whose true 
names we might have had from him, but yet have not 
He had a purpose after this to have visited the court 
of Prester John, in Ethiopia, who is there called by his 
own people Ho BioU the kin«j, and after this it was in 
his thoughts to have cast his eyes upon many other 
places ; which if he had done, and lived to write those 
relations," the Reverend Thomas Terry thinks •* they 
must needs have swollen into so marty huge volumes 
as would have prevented the perishing of paper." Be- 
fore he could set out, however, he fell sick, and, as 
often happens when ill and far from home, hope failed 
him, and he frequently expressed his fears that he 
should die in his way towards Surat, and none of his 
friends know what became of him ; " he travelling now, 
as he usually did, alone." Yet did he not for a moment 
waver in his purpose of journeying onwards; but 
"thankfully refusing my Lord's invitation to stay 
longer with him," he bent his step towards Surat— 
three hundred miles distant He lived to reach it but 
sick in body and sick at heart. By some of the English 
there •• who used him over-kindly," he was "invited 
to partake of some sack they had brought from Eng- 
land." At the well-known sound, visions of home and 
happy days, and of 

" The things he had seen 
Done at the Mermaid," 
flitted before him. "Sack, sack!*' he exclaimed in 
words that sound to us singularly pathetic, <% is there 
any such thing as sack ? I pray you bring me some 
sack." "The drinking of it" says Terry, "though 
moderately (for he was a very temperate man), increased 
the dysentery so much that in a few days he died. This 
was in December, 1617 ; and he was buried under a 
little monument, like one of those which are usually 
made in our churchyards." Whereon Master Terry 
thus moralizeth :— " Sic exit Coryattu. Hence he went 
off the stage, and so must all after him, how long 
soever their parts seem to be : for if one should go to 
the extremest part of the world east, another west, 
another north, and anotiicr south, they must all meet 
together in the Field of Bones, wherein our traveller 
hath now taken up his lodging." 

There need little be added to what we have already 
said of Coryat That he was not without considerable 
shrewdness is evident: Ben Jonson calls him " a great 
and bold carpenter of words, or (to express him in one 
like his own) a Logodocdale ; ' and his carpentry often 
conceals his better parts: but as Fuller truly said, 
"few would call him a fool, might none do it save 
such who had as much learning as himself." To his 
good qualities his contemporaries were mole-eyed, his 
faults they saw plainly enough— not the less so perhaps 
that they afforded plenteous employment both for 
those who had wit and those who fancied they had it. 
As a traveller, his perseverance, his anxiety to obtain 
what he considered to be important information, his 
patience under fatigue, and his thorough honesty :— as 
a man, his singular kind-heartedness, as well as extreme 
simplicity, arc everywhere conspicuous ; unfortunately 
his tediousneas and vanity are equally so. Fuller has 
spoken of his person in a manner that may serve as a 
study to the phrenologists :— " He carried folly (which 
the charitable call merriment) in his very face. The 
shape of his head had no promising form, being like a 
sugar-loaf inverted, with the little end before, as com- 
posed of fancy and memory, without any common 
sense." 

Our portrait of him is taken from the frontispiece to 
his 4 Crudities,' where it is supported by three gaily 
dressed ladies, the representatives of France, Italy, and 
Germany, the latter of whom yields occasion for a 
little merriment from Ben Jonson. Whitaker says of 
the portrait, 



" This should be hit picture, 'tis rather hit emblem, 
For by it it notes him, though *t little resemble him. 1 * 
But Tom adds in a note, " You differ in opinion (Mr. 
Lawrence) from all my other friends that have com- 

Jared together the counterfeited and the living figure." 
onson says nothing about the likeness, but quizzes 
his " starched beard and pointed ruff ;" while Whitaker 
laughs at his traveller's air. The engraving of Coryat 
on an elephant is a reduced copy of the cut before re- 
ferred to. 



The Albatross.^-lt soars along with widely expanded wings 
that often measure fifteen or eighteen feet between the tips, with 
an even, solemn flight, rarely seeming to stir, but as if merely 
floating along. Now and then a slow flapping motion serves to 
raise him higher in the air, but the swift movement and busy 
flutter of other birds seem beneath his dignity. He sails almost 
close to yon, like a silent spectre. Nothing of life appears in his 
still, motionless form, but his keen piercing eye, except that 
occasionally his head turns slightly, and betrays a sharp, prying 
expression, that somewhat shakes vour belief in the lordly indif- 
ference he would fain assume ; and if you iling overboard a piece 
of rusty pork, the disenchantment is complete, and you see that 
long curiously-crooked beak exercising its enormous strength 
in an employment so spectral a personage could scarcely be 
suspected of indulging.— Mrs. Meredith's Sketches of New South 
Wales. 

labour. — Although labour is one of the most important items 
in agriculture, much too little attention lias frequently been paid 
to taking notes of it, and calculating the expense. Even if a 
general estimate be made of the cost of ploughing executed by 
the servants and teams belonging to the estate, as well as by day- 
labourers and task -workers, and the whole amount of these ex- 
penses be obtained by adding together the wages and food of 
the servants, the value of fodder consumed by the beasts of 
draught, and finally the amount of pecuniary disbursements, 
still the portiou of these expenses which appertains to each object, 
product, and field, is rarely ascertained with any precision; 
nevertheless, such knowledge is of the utmost importance, since 
it affords the only means by which certain results respecting the 
profit and loss of each department of the cultivation, or system of 
operations in general, can be obtained. Again, itis in this way 
atone that it is possible to ascertain whether the •sources which 
have been expended on la!>our have been employed to the greatest 
advantage, or whether they might not be better applied. The 
method of which we arc speaking would, likewise, tend to give 
a greater degree of control over labour than could be obtained 
by any other means, and to furnish data for making valuations 
and far more certain principles than could be derived even from 
the most incessant and careful superintendence and inspection of 
the different branches of labour.— Von Thaer, by Shaw and John- 
son, vol. i. p. 130. 



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THE YEAR OF THE POETS. 

No. II.— The First Steps of Spring. 

In the northern clime, the clime of Sweden and Nor- 
way, *' there is no long and lingering Spring unfolding 
leaf and blossom one by one ;— no long and lingering 
Autumn, pompous with many coloured leaves and the 
glow of Indian Summers. But Winter and Summer 
are wonderful, and pass into each other." So writes, 
from actual observation, Longfellow, the chief of Ame- 
rican poets. Long and lingering Spring, long and lin- 
gering Autumn, of our own capricious Bkies, blessed 
be the great Source of life and beauty who has given 
you to us ! If Winter had leapt into the arms of Sum- 
mer, many a poet of England might have sung the 
glories of their bridal day ; but where would have been 
the thousand delicious foot-prints of the upward and 
downward march of the Year, which the poets have 
waited upon in all love and joyfulness ! 

Eternal Spring !— it is a dream of the poets, but not 
of the poet-naturalists. They dutifully watch all the 
slow changes of the seasons. Spring mounting into 
Summer, Summer ripening into Autumn, Autumn 
declining into Winter, Winter melting into Spring;— 
Childhood, Manhood, Age, Death, ye have your types 
in the ever varying year. The Spring of the Fortu- 
nate Isles has no variety in its sweets. Hear how a 
true poet sung the Spring of the Bermudas in his 
Song of the Pilgrims who fledfrom our shores in search 
of freedom and toleration : — 

" Where the remote Bermudas ride 
Jn the ocean's bosom unespied : 
From a small boat that row'd along 
The list'uing winds receiv'd this song. 

no. 822. . 



What should we do but slug his praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so Jong unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own t 
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs. 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring, 
Which here enamels everything ; 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits thro' the air. 
He hangs in shades (he orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night; 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet. 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No trees could ever bear them twice. 
With cellars, chosen by his hand, 
From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel s pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
Oh ! let our voice his praise exalt, 
Till it arrive at Heaven s vault, 
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay. 

Thus sung they, in the English boat, 
An holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time." 

Andrew Marvelu 



Vol. XIV — E 

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THE PENNY MAGAZINE. 



[January 2& 



Beautiful as this charming lyric is. we cannot feel 
its truth, as we feel the Sonnet of the Ayrshire Plough- 
man, " On hearing a Thrush sing in a Morning Walk 
in January :" — 

" Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless h.ugh ; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 
See aged Winter, 'mid bis surly reign, 
At thy blithe carol clears bis furrow 'd brow. 

So iu lone Poverty's dominion drear 
Sits meek Content with light nnanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
"What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; 
The mite high Heav'n bestowed, that mite with thee 
I'll share." 

Burns. 

Spring in the lap of Winter is very beautiful. Feb- 
ruary smiles and pouts like a self-willed child. We 
are gladdened by the flower-buds of the elder, and the 
long flowers of the hazel. The crocus and the snow- 
drop timidly lift up their heads. Mosses, the verdure 
of winter, that rejoice in moisture and defy cold, luxu- 
riate amidst the general barrenness. The mole is busy 
in his burrowed galleries. There are clear mornings, 
not unmusical with the voices of more birds than the 
thrush of Burns : — 

" The mist still hovers round the distant hills ; 
But the blue sky above us has a clear 
And pearly softness; not a white speck lies 
Upon its breast : it is a crystal dome. 
There is a quiet charm about this morn 
Which sinks into the soul. No gorgeous colours 
Has the uudraperied earth, but yet she shows 
A vestal brightness : not the voice is heard 
Of sylvan melody, whether of birds 
Intent on song, or bees mingling their music 
With their keen labour; but the twitteriug voice 
Of chaffinch, or the wild, unfrequent note 
Of the lone woodlark, or the rmiistrelsy 
Of the blest robin, have a potent spell 
Chirping away the silence : not the perfume 
Of violet scents the gale, nor apple-blossom, 
Nor satiating bean-flower ; the fresh breeze 
Itself is purest fragrance. Light and uir 
Are ministers of gladness; where these spread 
Beauty abides and joy : wherever Life is 
There is no melancholy." 

Anon. 

There was more approach to Poetry in our calendar 
when the year commenced in March. We opened our 
year with the early Spring, and not in the mid-Winter. 
It is in one of his lively poems on Spring that Words- 
worth makes his year begin with u The first mild day 
of March :" — 

"It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than before, 
The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
That stands beside outdoor. 

There is a blessing in the air, 

Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 

And grass in the green field. 

My sister ! ('t is a wish of mine) 

Now that our morning meal is d.ne, 
Make haste, your morning task resign ; 

Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come*with you ; and pray 
Put on with speed your woodland dress : 

And bring' no hook ; for this oue day 
We '11 give to idleness 



No joyless forms shall regulate 

Our living Calendar : 
We from to-day, my friend, will date 

The opening of the year. 

Love, now an universal birth, 

From heart to heart is stealing, 
From earth to man, from man to earth ; 

— It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us snore 

Than fifty years of reason : 
Our minds will drink at ever}' pore 

The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 

Which they shall long obey : 
We for the year to come may take 

Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that mils 

About, below, above, 
We 11 frame the measure of our souls : 

They shall be tuned to love. 

Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
With speed put on your woodland dress : 

—-And bring no book ; for this one day 
We '11 give to idleness." 

Wordswoiith. 

Glorious is the song which the same poet of Nature 
raises when the snow has left the mountains :— 

" The cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing. 

Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The plough-boy is whooping— anon — anon : 

There 's joy in the mountains ; 

There 's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing; 
The rain is over and gone !" 

WoEDSWOHTH. 

This is painting from Nature. The poet sits with 
his pencil under the blue sky. He delineates what is 
before him ; and there is a picture which wants no 
heightening. One of our elder bards touches the 
same scenes with the gayer colours of Fancy : — 

" Sweetly breathing Vernal Air, 
That with kind warmth dost repair 
Winter's ruins, from whose breast 
All the gums and spice of th* east 
Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky ; 
Whose dishevell'd tresses shed 
Pearls upon the violet bed ; 
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, 
The halcyon sits, and builds her nest ; 
Beauty, youth, and endless spring, 
Dwell upon thy rosy wing! 

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
Down whole forests when he blows, 
With a pregnant flowery birth 
Canst refresh the teeming earth. 
If he nip the early bud, 
If he blast what 's fair or good, 
If he scatter our choice flowers, 
"be shake our hall or bowers 



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If his rude breath threaten us,' 
Thou canst stroke great (Eolus, 
And from him the grace obtain 
To bind him in an iron chain." 

Thomas Carew. 

Spenser, the most imaginative of poets, in his 
1 Shepherd's Calendar,' tells us of the opening Spring- 
time with an antique simplicity in a dialogue be- 
tween : — 

" The jovous time now nigbeth fatty 
That shall alegge this bitter blast. 

And slake the Winter sorrow. 
Tito. Sicker, Willye, thou waruest well ; 
For Winter's wrath begins to quell, 
And pleasant Spring appcareth : 
The grass now 'gins to be refresh'd, 
The swallow peeps out of her nest, 

And cloud j welkin cleareth. 
JVil. Seest not thilke same Hawthorn stud, 
How bragly it liegins to bud, 
And utter his tender head f 
Flora now calleth forth each flower 
And bids make ready Maia's bower.'* 

SrENSEH. 

More gorgeous is his personation of the Months, of 
which March leads the train : — 

" First ; sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent 
And armed strongly, rode upon u Ram, 
The same which over Hellcsjjontui swam ; 
Yet in his hand a spade he also heut, 
And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame, 
Which on the earth he strewed as he went, 
And til I'd her womb with fruitful hope of nourishment." 

SrENSKR. 

The second is April : — 

44 Next came fresh April, full of lusty head, 

And wanton as a kid whose honi new buds ; 
Upon a Bull he rode, the same which led 

Europa floating through lb' Argolic floods : 
EI is horns were gilden all with golden studs, 

And garnished with garlands goodly d'tght 
Of all the fairest flowers and freshest buds 

Which the earth brings forth ; and wet he seemM in sight 
With waves, through which he waded for his Love's delight." 

Spknsek. 



[Proud pied April.] 

Shakspere personifies April in four charming lines : — 

•' From you have I been absent in the Spring, 
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
That heavy Saturn laugh 'd and leap'd with him." 

Sonnet xcviii. 

After these mighty masters we may still listen with 
delight to the simple April song of the old lyrist of 
Scotland, honest Allan Ramsay : — 



"In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain, 
And Summer approaching rejuiceth the swain ; 
The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go 
To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn trees grow. 
There under the shade of an old sacred thoni, 
With freedom he sang his loves ev'ning and mom ; 
He sang with so fast and enchanting a sound, 
That silvans and fairies unseen dane'd around." 

Ramsay. 

Nor mav we hesitate to tal*c as a companion in our 
early Spring walks an unpretending poet, who was 
scarcely appreciated in his own day, and is now 
neglected : — 

* ; Mindful of disaster past, 
And shrinking at the northern blast, 
The (leety storm returning still, 
The morning hoar, and evening chill, 
lteluctunt comes the timid Spring. 
Scarce a bee with airy wing 
Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around, 
That clothe the garden's southern bound : 
Scarce a sickly strangling flower 
Decks the rough castle's rifted tower : 
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps 
From the dark dell's entangled steeps : 
O'er the field of waving broom, 
Slowly shoots the golden bloom : 
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale 
Tinctures the transitory gale. 
While from the shrubbery's naked maze, 
Where the vegetable blaze 
Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone, 
Every chequered charm is flown ; 
Save that the lilac hangs to view 
Its bursting gems in clusters blue. 

Scant along the ridgy land 
The beans their new-born ranks expand ; 
The fresh-tun i*d soil with tender blades 
Thinly the sprouting barley shades ; 
Fringing the forest's devious edge, 
Half rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge; 
Or to the distant eye displays 
Weakly green its budding sprays. 

The swallow, for a moment seen, 
Skims in haste the village green ; 
From the grey moor on feeble wing, 
The screaming plovers idly spring: 
The butterfly, gay-painted soon, 
Explores awhile the tepid noon ; 
And fondly trusts its tender dyes 
To fickle suns and flattering skies. 

Fraught with a transient frozen shower, 
If a cloud should haply lower, 
Sailing o'er the landscape dark, 
Mute on a sudden is the lark ; 
But when gleams the sun again 
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain. 
And from behind his watery veil 
Looks through the thin-descending hail ; 
She mounts, and lessening to the sight. 
Salutes the blithe return of light, 
And high her tunefuftrack pursues 
'Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues. 

W r here in venerable rows 
W'idely waving oaks enclose 
The muat of yonder antique hall, 
Swarm the rooks with amorous call ; 
And to the toils of nature true, 
Wreathe their capacious nests anew/* 

Tuomas Wakton. 

[To be continued.] 



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[Gialio Romano.] 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 
PAINTERS.— No. XXXV. 

The Scholars of Raphael. 

We have already had occasion to observe the great 
number of scholars, some of them older than himself, 
who had assembled round Raphael, and the unusual 
harmony in which they lived together. Vasari relates 
that when lie went to court, a train of fifty painters 
attended on him from his own house to the Vatican. 
They came from every part of Italy ;— from Florence, 
Milan, Venice, Bologna, Ferrara, Naples, and even 
from beyond the Alps, to study under the great Roman 
master ; many of them assftted, with more or less skill, 
in the execution of his great works in fresco ; some 
imitated him in one thing, some in another ; but the 
unrivalled charm of Raphael's productions lies in the 
impress of the mind which produced them. This he 
could not impart to others. Those who followed ser- 
vilely a particular manner of conception and drawing 
which they called 'Raphael's style/ sunk into insi- 
pidity and littleness. Those who had original power 
deviated into exaggerations and perversities. Not one 
among them approached him. Some caught a faint re- 
flection of his grace, some of his power : but they turned 
it to other purposes ; they worked in a different spirit 1 



they followed the fashion of the hour. While he lived, 
his noble aims elevated them, but when he died they 
fell away one after another. The lavish and magnifi- 
cent Pope Leo X. was succeeded in 1521 by Adrian 
VI., a man conscientious even to severity, sparing 
even to asceticism, and without any sympathies either 
for art or artists ; during his short pontificate of two 
years all the works in the Vatican and St. Peter's were 
suspended ; the poor painters were starving ; the 
dreadful pestilence which raged in 1523 drove many 
from the city. Under Clement VII., one of the Medici, 
and nephew of Leo X., the arts for a time revived ; but 
the sack of Rome by the barbarous soldiery of Bourbon 
in 1527 completed tne dispersion of the artiste who had 
flocked to the capital, each returning to his native 
country or city, became also a teacher, and thus what 
was called ' Raphael's School ' or the * Roman School * 
was spread from one end of Italy to the other. 

Raphael had left by his will his two favourite 
scholars, Giau Francesco Penni and Giulio Romano, 
as executors, and to them he bequeathed the task of 
completing his unfinished works. 

Gian Francesco Penni, called II Fattore, was his 
beloved and confidential pupil, and had assisted him 
much, particularly in preparing his cartoons; but 
everything he executed from his own mind and after 
Raphael's death has, with much tenderness and Rttf- 



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faeUsque grace, a sort of feebleness more of mind than 
hand : his pictures are very rare. He died in 1528. 

His brother Luca Penni was in England for some 
years in the service of Henry VIII., and employed by 
Wolsey in decorating his palace at Hampton Court ; 
some remains of his performances there were still to 
be seen in the middle of the last century ; but Horace 
Walpole's notion that Luca Penni executed those three 
singular pictures, the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the 
Battle of the Spurs, and the Embarkation of Henry 
VIII., appears to be quite unfounded. 

Giulio Pippi, surnamed from the place of his birth 
II Romano, and generally styled Giulio Romano, 
was also much beloved by Raphael, and of all his 
scholars the roust distinguished for original power. 
While under the influence of Raphael's mind, be imi- 
tated his manner and copied his pictures so success- 
fully, that it is sometimes difficult for the best judges 
to distinguish the difference of hand. After Raphael's 
death he abandoned himself to his own luxuriant genius. 
He lost ihc simplicity, the grace, the chaste and ele- 
vated feeling which had characterised his master. He 
became strongly embued with the then reigning taste 
for classical and mythological subjects, which he treated 
not exactly in a classical spirit, but with great boldness 
and fire, both in conception and execution. He did 
not excel in religious subjects : if he had to paint the 
Virgin, he gave her the air and form of a commanding 
Juno ; if a Saviour, he was like a Roman emperor ; 
the apostles in his pictures are like heathen philo- 
sophers ; but when he had to deal with gods and 
Titans he was in his element. 

For four years after the death of Raphael he was 
chiefly occupied in completing his master's unfinished 
works ; at the end of that time he went to Mantua and 
entered the service of the Duke Gonzaga, as painter and 
architect. He designed for him a splendid palace called 
the Palazzo del Te, which he decorated with frescoes in 
a grand but coarse style. In one saloon he represented 
Jupiter vanquishing the giants; in another, the history 
of Psyche : everywhere we see great luxuriance of fancy, 
wonderful power of drawing, and a bold large style 
of treatment ; but great coarseness of imagination, red 
heavy colouring, a pagan rather than a classical taste. 

In character Giulio Romano was a man of generous 
mind ; princely in his style of living ; an accomplished 
courtier, yet commanding respect by a lofty sense of 
his own dignity as an artist. He amassed great riches 
in the service of the Duke Gonzaga, and spent his life 
at Mantua : his most important works are to be found 
in the palaces and churches of that city. 

When Charles I. purchased the entire collection of 
the Dukes of Mantua in 1629, there were among them 
many pictures by Giulio Romano ; one of these was 
the admirable copy of Raphael's fresco of the battle 
between Constantine and Maxentius, now in the guard- 
room at Hampton Court ; in the same gallery arc 
seven others, all mythological, and characteristic cer- 
tainly, but by no means favourable specimens of his 
genius. The most important picture which came into 
the possession of King Charles was a Nativity, a large 
altar-piece, which after the king's death was sold into 
France : it is now in the Louvre (1075). A very pretty 
little picture is the Venus persuading Vulcan to forge 
the arrows of Cupid— also in the Louvre (1077), from 
which the group of Cupids in the illustration has been 
taken. Engravings after Giulio Romano are very 
commonly met with. 

Giulio Romano was invited by Francis I. to under- 
take the decoration of his palace at Fontainebleau, but 
not being able to leave Mantua, he sent his pupil Pri- 
raaticcio, who covered the walls with frescoes and ara- 
besques, much in the manner of those in the Palazzo 
del Te, that is to say. with gods and goddesses, fauns, 



satyrs, nymphs, Cupids, Cyclops, Titans, in a style as 
remote from that of Raphael as can well be imagined, 
and yet not destitute of a certain grandeur 



[From the Woman taken in Adultery, by G. Roman*.] 



THE FOUNTAINS AND WATER-SELLERS OF 
TURKEY. 

In a recent article (No. 812), we gave a few details 
concerning the Turkish arrangements for supplying 
Constantinople with water ; by means of beudts or 
reservoirs, aqueducts, hydraulic pillars, and immen-' 
cisterns in different parts of the city. These may be 
termed the engineering portion of the arrangements ; 
and we have yet to notice what may perhaps be 
deemed the retail distribution of water within the ciiy 
itself. 

Dr. Walsh observes: — "As there is no object of 
consumption in life so precious to a Turk as water, so 
there is none which he takes such care to provide, not 
only for himself, but for all other animals. Before his 
door he always places a vessel filled with water for the 
dogs of the street ; he excavates stones into shallow 
cups, to catch rain for the little birds ; and wherever 
a stream runs or a rill trickles, he builds a fountain 
for his fellow-creature, to arrest and catch the vagrant 
current, that not a drop of the fluid should be wasted. 
These small fountains are numerous, and frequently 
executed with care and skill. They are usually Darted 
or backed with a slab of marble, ornamented with 
Turkish sculpture, and inscribed with some sentence 



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[JANV ART 23, 



from the Koran, inculcating practical charity and 
benevolence. The beneficent man, at whose expense 
this is done, ne^ver allows his own name to make part 
of the inscription. A Turk has no ostentation in his 
charity ; his favourite proverb is, ' Do good, and throw it 
into the sea ; and if the fish do not see it, Allah will.' " 

Some of the fountains which adorn Constantinople 
are very magnificent; two especially, one near the 
great gate of the Seiaglio, and the other in Pcra, near 
Tophana. They arc beautiful specimens of the ara- 
besque, highly decorated. The Pera Fountain is in 
the midst of a busy market-place, where its value is 
more fully appreciated than it would be at auy other 
spot. Here arc in one place dealers in melons and 
gourds, and in others dealers in the countless articles 
of eastern luxury— such of them, at least, as are not 
sold in the covered bazaars. The fountain, in the 
middle of the open area, is a so.ua re edifice with four 
projecting cornices, surmounted by a balustrade along 
the four facades. These last are covered over with 
a profusion of sculpture; and every compartment, 
formed by the mouldiug, is filled with sentences from 
the Koran, and poetical quotations from Turkish, Per- 
sian, and Arabic authors. The following is a transla- 
tion given by Dr. Walsh of some of the inscriptions : — 

"This fountain descended from Heaven — erected in 
this suitable place, dispenses its salutary waters on 
every side by ten thousand channels." 

44 Its pure and lucid stretms attest its salubrity, and 
its transparent current has acquired for it an universal 
eclebritv." 

44 As long as Allah causes a drop of rain to descend 
into its reservoir, the happy people who participate in 
its inestimable benefits shall watt praises of its virtue 
to that sky from whence it came down." 

"It should be our prayer that the justice of a mer- 
ciful God should reward with happiness the author of 
this benevolent undertaking, and have his deed handed 
down to a never-ending posterity." 

44 This exquisite work is before Allah a deed of high 
merit, and indicates the piety of the Sultan Mahmoud." 

The arrangements for supplying this so highly- 
prized beverage to the inhabitants arc as follow : — The 
whole of the water department is under the direction 
of the Sou Nazir, a * president of water/ who has 
under him two sub-corps, the Sou Ioldgi, or 4 water 
engineers,' and the Sacgccs, or * water-carriers.' The 
business of the first of these corps is to watch that the 
beudts, &c. receive no damage, and arc in constant 
repair ; while the second distribute the water over the 
city. They are supplied with leathern sacks, broad at 
one end and narrow at the other, somewhat like churns, 
and closed at the mouth with a leather strap. When 
one of these bags has been filled at the fountain, the 
sacgee throws it across his back, with the broad end 
resting on his hip and the narrow end on his shoulder ; 
when he empties it he opens the flap, stoops his head, 
and the water is discharged into some recipient. 

Another of these busy fountains, in the suburb 
called Galata, is considered one of the most beautiful 
specimens of Moorish architecture which the city ex- 
hibits. Four small domes form the roof, circled by a 
net-work of dentated sculpture, which gives them a 
light and pretty appearance. The face of the fountain 
is profusely painted with arabesques. Five slender 
pillars of white marble divide the principal frout into 
four equal compartments, which are covered to about 
mid-height with gilded lattice work. Withinside is a 
range of brass vessels, occupying the lip of a reservoir, 
containing a constant supply of cool water for the use 
of the thirsty passenger ; while on either side of this 
principal front are exterior basins fed with a constant 
flow of water, from which vessels are filled by all 
comers free of cliargc. 



So much do the Turks delight in drinking the clear 
produce of their beudts and fountains, that they often 
make a holiday to a pretty country spot for this pur- 
pose: about midway along the Bosphorus is a delight- 
ful place called the "Valley of the Sweet Waters," 
where a small stream flows into the Bosphorus. On 
Fridays (the Mahoramedan Sabbath), the valley is 
thronged with holiday-keeping idlers; and a Frank or 
European has theu a better opportunity of seeing 
Turkish women than under any other circumstances, 
for there is somewhat of an unbending from that rigid 
discipline which is observed within the capital itself. 
Miss Pardoe has given a graphic description of this 
scene. ** All ranks alike frequent this sweet and 
balmy spot. The sultanas move along in quiet stateli- 
ness over the green sward in their gilded arabas, drawn 
by oxen glittering with foil and covered with awnings 
of velvet, heavy with gold embroidery and frinjres; 
the light carriages of the pashas* harems roll rapidly 
past, decorated with flashing draperies, the horses 
gaily caparisoned, and the young beauties within pil- 
lowed on satins and velvets, and frequently screened 
by shawls of immense value ; while the wives of many 
of the beys, the effendis, and the emirs, leave their 
arabas, and seated on Persian carpets under the leafy 
canopy of the superb maple-trees which abound in the 
valley, amuse themselves for hours, the elder ladies 
with their pipes and the younger ones with their hand- 
mirrors; greetings innumerable take place on all 
sides, and the itinerant confectioners and water- 
vendors reap a rich harvest The fountain of Guyuk 
Suy stands in the midst of a double avenue of trees, 
which fringe the border of the Bosphorus. It is built 
of delicate white marble, is extremely elegant in design, 
and elaborately ornamented with arabesques. The 
spot which it adorns is a point of re-union for the fair 
idlers of the valley, when the evening breeze upon the 
channel renders this portion of the glen more cool and 
delicious than that in which they pass the earlier hours 
of the day, and is only separated from it by the stream 
already named, which is traversed by a heavy wooden 
bridge. The whole coup oVail is charming. Slaves 
hurry hither and thither carrying water from the foun- 
tain to their respective mistresses, in covered crystal 
goblet?, or vases of wrought silver; fruit merchants 
pass and repass with amber-coloured grapes and 
golden melons; Sclavonian musicians collect a crowd 
about them, which disperses the next moment to throng 
round a gang of Bedouin tumblers ; serudjes gallop 
over the soft grass in pursuit of their employers : car- 
riages come and go noiselessly along the turf at the 
beck of their fair occupants ; a fleet of caiques dance 
upon the ripple, ready to convey a portion of the revel- 
lers to their homes on the European shore; and the 
beams of the bright sun fall full on the turretcd towers 
of the castles of Europe on the opposite side of the 
channel, touching them with gold, and contrasting yet 
more powerfully their long and graceful shadows upon 
the water.'* 

In most of the Oriental countries this practice of 
bringing water from fountains in earthen bottles or 
stone vessels is followed ; and the water itself is much 
more highly valued as a drink than in England. Mr. 
Lane states that mater is almost the only beverage 
taken by the Egyptians at their meals. The water of 
the Nile is said to be remarkably good, and this water 
is drunk at table either from an earthen bottle or from 
a brass cup. The water bottles arc of two kinds ; the 
one with a narrow and the other with a wide mouth. 
They arc made of a greyish, porous earth, which gives 
a delicious coolness to the water by evaporation ; and 
they arc generally placed in a current of air for this 
purpose. The Egyptians contrive to give a sort of 
perfume to the water by blacking the interior of the 



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bottle with the smoke of some resinous kind of wood, 
then perfuming it with a fragrant smoke from another 
kind of wood, and then with the smoke of mastic. To 
effect this, the burning ingredients are put into a cu- 
riously formed earthen vessel, called a mib'khar'ah, 
having a very narrow mouth ; and the water- vessel, by 
being inverted over this, becomes coated by the per- 
fumed smoke. The flavour of the water is also some- 
times modified by putting a little orange-flower water 
into the bottle. Tlic bottles have stoppers of silver, 
brass, tin, wood, or palm-leaves ; and are generally 
placed in a tray of tinned-copper, which receives the 
water that exudes from them. In cold weather china 
bottles are used in many houses instead of these, in 
order that the water might not be rendered too cold. 
There are many countries, such as the sandy desert 
of Arabia, in wnieh water-bottles made of skin or 
leather are constantly used. Some of these roving 
tribes have water-bags made of tanned camel-skin ; 
some of goat or of kid skin ; the buckets for dipping 
from the wells are of leather. Sometimes the whole 
skin of a he goat is made up into a large water-bag; 
while smaller ones, made from kid-skin, are used in 
travelling, and are attached to the saddle. These skin 
bags, which present rather an odd appearance when 
full of water, are made without seam ; by cutting off 
the head and feet of the animals, and emptying the 
skin of its entire contents without cutting open the 
skin itself, except at the parts where the head and feet 
have been severed. 



THE CHEVALIER BAYARD. 

Lv the fifteenth century chivalry was fast declining 5 
but it seemed as though it were necessary that it should 
exhibit before its final disappearance one almost per- 
fect embodiment of the chivalric character. Lofty 
courage united with all soldierly accomplishments, 
tempered by prudence, and adorned with generosity, 
courtesy, humility, and all other knightly graces, 
gained for Bayard by common consent the title of the 
4 Good Knight without fear and without reproach:' 
and seldom has an honourable title been better earned 
or more worthily bestowed. Fortunately he found a 
fitting biographer. One of the most interesting books 
of its class is *The right jovous and pleasant History 
of the Feats, Gests, Triumphs, and Prowesses of the 
Chevalier Bayard the Good Knight without Fear and 
without Reproach.* Its author, * the Loyal Servant/ as 
lis styles himself, was Bayard's secretary, and lie 
rherisned his master's memory with an ardent devo- 
tion. His situation afforded him favourable opportu- 
nities for acquiring authentic information, while his 
own tastes led him to detail with a hearty relish all 
deeds of arms and martial adventure ; and hence there 
arc an earnestness, a simplicity, and a liveliness in his 
relations that at once attest their reality and enforce 
attention. A better portraiture of military life at that 
period does not exist. Though belonging to the next 
century, and more limited in its range as confined to 
the history of one knight, it is an admirable companion 
to Froissart. It is written in French, and was origin- 
ally published at Paris in 1527, in a thin quarto black- 
letter volume. An excellent translation of it was pub- 
lished in England about twenty years back. With this 
work as our guide, aided by occasional reference to 
other authorities, we shall briefly sketch the life of the 
• Good Knight* 

His> real name was Pierre Terrail, Bayard being 
derived from his family estates. •• ' Tis a scurvy cus- 
tom,* says Montaigne, •* and of very ill conseouence, 
that we nave in our kingdom of France to call every 
one by the name of his manor or seigneury." He was 
born at the Chtteau de Bayard in Dauphin v, in the 



year 1475. He came of a noble and warlike race : 
several of his immediate ancestors were slain in battle, 
one at Poitiers, another at Agincourt, and another at 
Montlhery ; and his father received such severe wounds 
at the skirmish at Guinegaste that he was never after- 
wards able to leave his house, although he lived to be 
fourscore. Shortly before his death he called his sons 
into his chamber and directed them to tell him what 
professions they wished to follow. The eldest replied 
that he desired nothing better than to remain at home. 
•• Do so, George," said his father, "and look after the 
bears." Another fixed on the monastery ; another, 
the more active clerical life. These also had their 
wishes gratified : the one in time became an abbot, the 
other a bishop. But when it was Pierre's turn to 
choose he declared he would be a soldier, as his father 
and grandfather had been, whose good name he trusted 
never to disgrace. When the old man heard these 
words he wept aloud for joy, crying, u May God give 
you grace so to do, my son ! Thou art like thy grand- 
father both in face and mien, and he in his lime was 
one of the best knights in Christendom." Thereupon 
he sent for his friends, and having informed them 
of his son's choice, lie consulted with them in what 
prince's bouse it were best to place the boy in order to 
receive his military education ; and it was decided to 
send him, under the care of his uncle, the Bishop of 
Grenoble, to the Duke of Savoy, who had ever been a 
friend to their family. Then thev sent to the next 
town for a tailor, who brought with nim satin and velvet 
to make him a handsome presentation suit, which was 
got ready by the following morning, when he departed 
with his uncle. But first his mother called him to her, 
and with many tears charged him to love God and 
serve him faithfully, to be loyal in word and deed, 
to be gentle and courteous to all persons, kind to 
widows and orphans, and bountiful to the poor : a charge 
by him never to be forgotten. 

Bayard was thirteen years old when he was presented 
to the Duke of Savoy; but he was already so skilful 
an equestrian, a most important attainment in a 
knight, as to excite the surprise of the duke ; for, as 
the loyal servant tells us, he managed his horse with as 
much ease as a man of thirty. The duke soon perceived 
the high promise of his nagc, and resolved to place 
him where his powers would have most room for their 
developement. For this purpose, six months after he 
had received him he presented him to the King Charles 
VIII. On this occasion, being ordered to show his ability 
in riding, he made bis horse curvet so much to the 
delight of the monarch that he called out to him to 
repeat the feat, picqucz, picqutz, from which Bayard 
was long known by the name of Picquet. Charles 
directed the Lord of Ligny to take charge of the youth, 
and in his house he remained as page nearly five 
years, when he was enrolled in his company. Soon 
after this he went with his lord to Lyons, and while 
there, Claude de Vauldr6, a fierce and famous knight, 
hung up his shields as a challenge to all adventurers to 
try their prowess either on horseback or a-foot. Now 
Bayard longed to try a joust, but he had not a suit of 
mail, and while he stood before the shields in a solemn 
mood, a certain companion of his named Bellabre, 
observing him lost in thought, asked him upon u hat 
he was meditating. Then he told him all that was in 
his heart, whereon the other reminded him that his 
uncle, the Abbot of Esnay, was a wealthy man, and 
would doubtless furnish him with horse and apparel 
that he might do honour to his family. So Bayard 
advanced and touched the shields. But the herald 
who stood by to record the names of all appellants 
bade him remember that De Vauldre was one of the 
fiercest knights known, while his beard had scarcely 
begun to ptow and besought him not to be so rash ; 



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[January 25, 1845. 



to which the other replied that what he did was not 
out of vainglory, but that he might learn the use of 
arms from one bo well fitted to teach him, and in the 
hope that he might do something to please the ladies. 
Both the king and the Lord of Ligny were well pleased 
when they heard of the daring of their young knight. 
Not so tne Abbot of Esnay, who quickly guessed he 
should have to bear the cost. How Picquet and his 
friend contrived to cozen him out of the necessary 
gold wherewith to purchase his attire we have not 
room to tell, though the loyal servant relates it with 
great glee. Nor can we describe the tournament ; 
suffice it that to Picquet the prize was awarded as 
having done best where all had done well. The loyal 
servant hints that his success perhaps was partly owing 
to De Vauldr6, from a generous feeling, not caring to 
exert his utmost skill against a stripling. Be that as 
it may, he was the theme of general praise from the 
king,' the Lord of Ligny, and all the ladies ; and all 
admired the meekness wherewith he bore his honours. 
Soon after this he went to Aire, where he proclaimed 
a tourney on his own account, at which he was again 
pronounced the victor on both the days ; but he would 
not receive the prizes, which he gave to David the Scot 
and his friend Bellabre. And now, says the loyal servant, 
none could praise the good knight enough, and hence- 
forth no one else was so much spoken ot by the ladies. 
Many other tournaments followed, but we must leave 
them all. 

Bayard was little more than eighteen when he entered 
on actual service. His first campaign was with the 
troops of Charles VIII. against Naples. This part of 
his history is passed rapidly over by his biographer as 
being too well known to need recapitulation. The 
romantic contempt of danger which distinguished him 
throughout his career was strikingly shown in this 
commencement of it. At the battle of Fornova, where 
he had two horses killed under him, he took a standard 
from the enemy, for which the king presented him 
with five hundred crowns. Charles was at first every- 
where victorious, but his Italian conquests were lost as 
rapidly as they had been acquired ; so that at his death 
little was left to the French in Italy. Louis XII. im- 
mediately on his accession to the throne determined to 
enforce his hereditary claim to the duchy of Milan, of 
which he readily obtained possession. But Ludovico 
Sforza, who had fled into Germany, soon returned 
with a German force, and quickly recovered his do- 
mains. In this war Bayard fell into the hands of the 
enemy ; he had been placed in command of a small 
garrison near Milan, and having been informed by his 
spies that three hundred horsemen would leave that 
city on a certain day, he led his companions out against 
them. They met at Binasco, and the loyal servant 
says, " whoever had seen the good knight doing martial 
deeds, cutting off heads, and hewing arms and legs, 
would have sooner taken him for a furious lion than 
for an amorous young gentleman." Bayard speedily 
compelled the Italians to fly, and pursued them eagerly. 
His companions wisely gave up the chase at the gates 
of the city ; but heedless of them, he followed his foes 
alone even to the market-place, where he was sur- 
rounded and taken prisoner.. He was carried before 
Sforza, who, moved by his bravery and noble bearing, 
gave him his liberty, and commanded his horse and 
arms to be restored to him. On another occasion he 
gave a still more remarkable proof of his courage by 
keeping a bridge single-handea against a party of two 
hundred of the enemy, and thus enabling his own 
friends to make good their retreat. But as we cannot 
follow him through all his services, we must be con- 
tent to notice only a few of the more important or 
characteristic adventures of the remainder of his life. 
We mentioned his employment of spies. This was a 



very common practice in those days, and the same 
men often served each party, and sometimes cheated 
each. Bayard was liberal in his payment of them, and 
they were generally faithful to him ; indeed, if *he had 
reason to believe tnem otherwise he made short work 
with them. And very properly, says the loyal servant, 
" for spies, as every one knows, are created by dame 
Avarice alone, and therefore, if out of six that are taken, 
one escape, he hath reason to thank God ; seeing that 
the true remedy for the disease they are cursed with is 
an halter." During the war in Naples in the year 
1511, his spies having informed him that the poin? 
(Julius) was going to leave Santo Felice for Mirandola, 
Bayard conceived a project to surprise him. Accord- 
ingly, having arranged with the Duke of Ferrara to be 
ready to succour him in case of a mishap, and having 
had his horses well fed during the night, i4 he took an 
hundred chosen men, and, when all were in readiness 
to encounter the shock of battle, went with his spy in 
a leisurely manner straight to that little village. He 
was fortunate enough to meet no one, man or woman, 
who might discover him, and settled himself in his 
post about an hour before day. The pope, being an 
early riser, was already up, and, when he saw it grew 
light, got into his litter that he might proceed. Pro- 
thonotaries, clerks, and officers of all sorts went on 
before to take lodgings, and set out upon their way 
unwitting of what was to happen. As soon as the 
good knight beard them he tarried not, but issued 
from his ambuscade, and fell upon the country people, 
who, much daunted, returned at full speed to the place 
they had come from, crying • Alarm I Alarm V But 
all that would not have prevented the pope, with his 
bishops and cardinals, from being taken, had it not 
been for an accident, very opportune for his holiness, 
and equally unfortunate for tne good knight. Which 
was this : when the pope had got into his litter, and 
quitted the road of Santo Felice, lie had not proceeded a 
stone's throw ere there fell the most sharp and violent 
storm of snow that had been beheld for an hundred 
years ; so that the travellers could not see one another by 
reason of the impetuosity thereof. The cardinal of Pavia, 
who at that time entirely governed the pope, then said to 
him, * Pater sancte, it is impossible to go on while this 
lasts; indeed there is no necessity for it; methinks 
you should return without attempting to proceed 
further.' The pope assented, though not aware of the 
ambuscade. And as ill luck would have it, when the 
fugitives returned, the good knight pursued them at 
full speed without stopping to take any one, that not 
being the point he aimed at. Just as he reached Santo 
Felice the pope was about to enter the castle, and was 
so terror-stricken at the cry he heard that, leaping 
suddenly from his litter without assistance, he helped 
to raise the bridge himself, which was wisely done, for 
had he delayed while one might say a Pater nosier, he 
would assuredly have been snapped." And so the good 
knight returned very much disconcerted, and his com- 
panions had much difficulty in comforting him ; while 
the poor '* pope remained in the castle of Santo Felice 
the whole day, shaking as in an ague fit." But though 
the good knight would have rejoiced thus to snap the 
pope, he rejected with horror a proposal soon after 
made to him by the Duke of Ferrara to have him 
poisoned ; notwithstanding that the duke at the same 
time revealed to him a scheme which the unscrupu- 
lous pontiff had contrived for the slaughter of the 
whole of the French serving with him— not one of 
them was to escape. Bayard, indeed, when he found 
that the duke had actually suborned one of the pope's 
own spies to administer the poison, vowed, if the order 
were not instantly countermanded, he " would apprise 
the pope thereof before night." 

£To be continued. 



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THE BRITISH VA LH A LL A.— No, I. 



he 



me new nouses 01 rarna- 
ment, and exhibited in Westminster Hall in the year 
1843, were, in many instances, not very happily chosen, 
being deficient in high national interest, or confined to 
incidents which were not the most honourable to the 
national character. Yet our artists had not far to seek 
for noble and elevating subjects. The history of their 
country lay before them, and no history is fuller of 



no. 823. 



ry 
ee 
great eras : — i. me pureiy isdujuus anu ir&uiuuual ; 
2. The traditional and legendary mixed with the real, 
or that in which the annalists and chroniclers were 
simple-minded and superstitious monks, who related 
what they saw or knew, and what reached them tra- 
ditionally, without much aid from documentary evi- 
dence, and without a thought about what is called the 
Philosophy of History. 3. The documentary and poai- 

Vol. XIV.— F 



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[January, 1845. 



tive ; or that part of history which followed the dim- 
ness of the middle ages, When historians began to be 
men of the world rattier than men of the cloisters ; 
when the marvellous was set aside for the true ; when 
writers began to collect and compare written docu- 
ments and the other materials of history, and to seek to 
mingle a philosophical spirit with their accuracy of 
detail. 

Strictly speaking, it is only in the third of these 
stages that history can be looked upon as a thoroughly 
authentic record. Yet the other two stages arc not to 
be discarded or slighted. Ingenuity and speculation 
and research have been and still are advantageously 
employed in separating the true and positive from the 
vague and traditional ; but happily no one has yet 
thought of setting aside the second or monkish era. 
To do so would be to blot out the most picturesque and 
most captivating part of the annals of every European 
nation, wherein the manners of the times in which the 
old chroniclers lived are faithfully depicted even where 
the facts they relate are most apocryphal. Nor was it 
until a comparatively recent date that a sentence of 
interdict was put upon the first, or the purely fabulous 
and traditional era. Our old historians or annalists of 
the times of Henry VIII., Queen Elizabeth, and 
James I., although they bad begun to feel the value of 
documentary evidence, and the necessity of careful re- 
search, did not scorn to give the earliest part of the 
history of their country just as it had come down to 
them. With a happy credulity, or au indifference to 
everything except to the beauty of the story, and to the 
indisputable fact that their ancestors had believed in it, 
they gave nearly all the fables and legends without 
query or hesitation. They would no more have doubted 
of the existence of King Arthur, or of his high em- 

? rises, and of the exploits of his Knights of the Round 
able, than they would have doubted of the existence 
of Adam or of Noah, of Abraham or of Moses. They 
always loved to begin at the beginning, and to trace 
that beginning to the remotest and dimmest period. 
Richard Grafton opens his 'Chronicle at large, and 
Mere History of the Affairs of England, and Kings 
of the same,' with the creation of the world, and makes 
Brute, the grandson of the Trojan JEneas, the first co- 
lonizer of England, the founder of the city of London, 
and the first of our long line of kings. He gives re- 
gular successions, and describes many events which 
were said to have taken place in this island in the days 
when King David or King Solomon reigned in Jeru- 
salem. John Speed, who had more Teaming than 
Grafton, and who lived at a later date, dismisses the 
story of Brute as a "vulgar received opinion, held on 
with four hundred years' continuance ;" but he says 
that it is not to be doubted but that this island was 
" replenished with people " long before the Flood of 
Noah ; and that after the Flood the island was re- 
peopled by one of Noah's grandsons. Honest John 
Stow, who begins the * Historical Preface' to his * An- 
nals, or a General Chronicle of England,' by solemnly 
and devoutly saying — "The law of God forbiddeth us 
to receive a false report, and the law of histories is, 
that we ought to publish no falsehood nor dissemble 
any truth," clings fondly to King Brutus, or Brute, as 
the founder of the English monarchy, although he will 
not precisely affirm that this Brute was descended from 
iEneas, and came hither by oracle accompanied by 
Trojans. He also gives a regular succession of kings 
descending from this Brute, and records events said to 
have happened more than a thousand years before the 
Christian era. Both Speed and Stow, in common with 
nearly all our historians of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and 
seventeenth centuries, treat of King Arthur as an in- 
dubitable historical personage — the national hero, whose 
reign and exploits admit of no doubt. They describe 



and give something like dates to his birth and pa- 
rentage, his battles against the Saxons, his benefactions 
to Glastonbury Abbey, his death and burial, and the 
monument that was made to his memory. But a writer 
far more illustrious than these — the immortal author 
of * Paradise Lost' — who wrote the History of England 
during the ancient British, the Roman, and the Saxon 
periods, with great learning and much philosophy, 
out also with the feeling of a poet and the apparent 
conviction that the traditional and legendary ought 
not, on any account, to be omitted, has left us a full 
and most animated narrative of the remote and fabu- 
lous times. Milton's history is a book for the poet, and 
a book for the artists who would decorate our Valhalla 
with the most ancient heroes and deeds of our conn- 
try's history. After passing over still more remote 
legends, Milton says, in his style of latinized English : 
— • But of Brutus or Brute and his line, with the whole 
progeny of kings, to the entrance of Julius CsBsar, we 
cannot so easily be discharged ; descents of ancestry, 
long-continued laws and exploits, not plainly seeming 
to be borrowed or devised, which on the common be- 
lief have wrought no small impression : defended by 
many, denied utterly by few. For what though Brutua 
and the whole Trojan pretence were yielded up (see- 
ing they who first devised to bring us from some noble 
ancestor were content at first with Brutus the consul ; 
till better invention, although not willing to forego the 
name, taught them to remove it higher into a more fa- 
bulous age, and by the same remove lighting on the 
Trojan tales, in affectation to make the Briton of one 
original with the Roman, pitched there), yet those old 
and inborn names of successive kings, never any to 
have been real persons, or done in their lives at least 
some part of what so long hath been remembered, can- 
not be thought without too strict an incredulity/** Our 
great poet, who breathed the true Anglo-Saxon spirit, 
and who felt that the liberty he so passionately loved, 
and the mixed but well-amalgamated race to which 
he belonged, owed most to the Saxon part of our an- 
cestry, dwelt with a national and patriotic fondness 
upon the heroes and exploits of even the most obscure 
part of the Saxon period. Milton found the inspira- 
tions of poetry and nationality in them ; and he has 
made some of these Saxon wars and battles almost as 
vivid and interesting as the war poetry of Homer. 
With him the visionary part of the character is entirely 
lost, and the early Saxon kings stand out as living and 
most real personages. 

That which has once, and for long ages, been be- 
lieved by a nation, ought always to Ve allowed to form 
a small part of that nation's history. The legends 
themselves are a sort of index to the national character, 
and a part of the materials out of which that character 
has been formed. History has not gained much by the 
rampant spirit of scepticism, by the rejection oi the 
books of many writers who had thought it essential to 
repeat the fabulous and traditional talcs of old ; but 
poetry has lost a good deal by this spirit and by this 
process of rejection. These portions of our annals, 
which ought always to be kept short, have been given 
by another immortal poet, and not in prose, but in me- 
lodious verse. Spenser' s sketch of the early periods of 
our history may be taken as a beautiful specimen of 
legendary narrative, and may serve as the decoration 
for the porch and entrance to our Valhalla, the interior 
of which will be peopled by more essentially historical 
and indisputable personages. The opening is a con- 
tinuous picture or series of pictures. Spenser had the 
portico of a Valhalla in his eye when he wrote it. 

After leading her guests, the two noble and valorous 
knights, through another apartment, the sober Lady 

• * The History of England to the Norman Conqucit/ by Mr. 
John Mil toil, Book I. 



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Uie second room, whose 



" Were painted fair with memorable gests 
Of famous wizards ; and with pieturals 
Of magistrates, of courts, of tribunals, 
Of commonwealths, of states, of policy, 
Of laws, of judgements, and of decretals, 
All arts, all science, all philosophy, 
And all that in the world was aye thought wittily. 

Of those that room was full: and them among 

There sate a man of ripe and perfect age, 

Who did them meditate all his life long, 

That through continual practice and usage 

He now was grown right wise and wondrous sage : 

Great pleasure had those stranger knights to see 

His goodly reason and grave personage, 

That his disciples both desired to be : 

But Alma thence them led to th' hindmost room of three. 

That chamber seemed ruinous and old, 

And therefore was removed far behind, 

Yet were the walls, that did the same uphold, 

Bight firm and strong, though somewhat they declin'd ; 

And therein sat an old old man, half blind, 

And all decrepid in his feeble corse, 

Yet lively vigour rested in his mind 

And recompens'd him with a better scorse ;* 

Weak body well is changed for mind's redoubled force. 

This man of infinite remembrance was, 
And things foregone through many ages held, 
Which he recorded still as they did pass, 
Ne suffer' d them to perish through long eld, 
As all things else the which this world doth weld ; 
But laid them up in his immortal serine, 
Where they for ever incorrupted dweli'd : 
The wars he well remembered of King Nine, 
Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine. 

The years of Nestor nothing were to his, 

Ne yet Methusalem, though longest liv'd ; 

For he remember'd both their infancis : 

Ne wonder then if that he were deprived 

Of native strength now that he them surviv'd. 

His chamber all was hanged about with rolls 

And old records from ancient times deriv'd, 

Some made in books, some in long parchment scrolls, 

That were all worm-eaten and rail of canker holes. 

Amidst them all he in a chair was set, 

Tossing and turning them wi thou ten end ; 

But for he was unable them to fat, 

A little boy did on him still attend, 

To reach, whenever he for aught did send ; 

And oft when things were lost, or laid amiss, 

That boy them sought and unto him did lend : 

Therefore he Anamnestes cleped is ; 

And that old man Eumnestes, by their propertis." 

The two knights, after paying due reverence to this 
old man of infinite remembrance, look round his 
library, and espy two ancient books, the one called 
•Briton IVfonimenta/ the other 'Antiquity of Faery 
Land/ The two contain the Chronicle of British 
Kings from Brute to King Uther Pendragon, the sire 
of King Arthur, and the rolls of the elfin emperors 
down to the time of Gloriana. The knights 

..••••* burning both with fervent fire 

Their country's ancestry to understand, 

Crav'd leave of Alma and that aged sire 

To read those books ; who gladly granted their desire." 

Beginning a new canto, and paying some high-flown 
compliments to Elizabeth the queen regnant, who was 
but an indifferent patron, Spenser continues with de- 
scribing what the knights read in the two hooks : — 

* Exchange, 



M The land which warlike Britons now possess, 
And therein have their mighty empire rais'd, 
In antique times was savage wilderness, 
Un-peopl'd, un-manur'd, unproved, un-prais'd ; 
Ne was it island then, ne was it pays'd 
Amid the ocean waves, ne was it sought 
Of merchants far, for profits therein prais'd ; 
But was all desolate, and of some thought 
By sea to have been from the Celtic mainland brought. 

Ne did it then a name deserve to have, 

Till that the venturous mariner that way 

Learning his ship from those white rocks to save, 

Which all along the southern sea-coast lay 

Threatening unheedy wreck and rash decay, 

For saftcty that same his sea-mark made, 

And nam'd it Albion : but later day 

Finding in it fit ports for fishers' trade, 

Gan more the same frequent, and further to invade. 

But far in-land a savage nation dwelt 

Of hideous giants, and half-beastly men, 

That never tasted grace, nor goodness felt ; 

But wild like beasts lurking in loathsome den, 

And flying fast as roebuck through the fen, 

All naked without shame or care of cold, 

By hunting and by spoiling liveden ; 

Of stature huge, and eke or courage bold, 

That sons of men amaz'd their sternness to behold*. 

But whence they sprung, or how they were begot, 

Uneath is to assure ; uneath to wene 

That monstrous error which doth some assot, 

That Dioclesian's fifty daughters shene 

Into this land by chance have driven been ; 

Where comnaning with fiends and filthy sprites 

Through vain illusion of their lust unclean, 

They brought forth giants, and such dreadful wights 

As far exceeded men in their immeasur'd mights. 

They held this land, and with their filthiness 
Polluted this same gentle soil long time ; 
That their own mother loath'd their beastliness, 
And gan abhor her brood's unkindly crime, 
All were they born of her own native slime : 
Until that Brutus, anciently deriv'd 
From royal stock of old Assarac's line, 
Driven by fatal error here arriv'd, 
And them of their unjust possession depriv'd. 

But ere he had established his throne, 
And spread his empire to the utmost shore, 
He fought great battles with his savage foue ; 
In which he them defeated evermore, 
And many giants left on groaning floor : 
That well can witness yet unto this day 
The western Hogh, besprinkled with the gore 
Of mighty Goemot, whom in stout fray 
Corineus conquered, and cruelly did slay. 

And eke that ample pit, yet far renown'd 
For the large leap which Debon did compel 
Coulin to make, being eight lugs of ground, 
Into the which returning back ne fell : 
But those three monstrous stones do most excel, 
Which that huge son of hideous Albion, 
Whose father Hercules in France did quell, 
Great Godmer threw in fierce contention, 
At bold Canutus ; but of him was slain anon. 

In meed of these great conquests by them got, 
Corineus had that province utmost west 
To him assigned for his worthy lot, 
Which of his name and memorable gest 
He called Cornwaile, yet so called best : 
And Debon's share was, that is Devonshire. 
But Canute had his portion from the rest. 
The which he called Canutium, for his hire ; 
Now Cantium, which Kent we commonly inquire.'* 

After this long war against the hideous giants and 
half- beastly men, the far descending Brute had sove- 
reignty over the whole of this realm, and reigned long 
in great felicity, loved by his friends and feared by his 

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foes. Spenser, following the oldest legends, gives King 
Brute an Italian wife and three sons by her : — 

" He left three sons, his famous progeny, 
Born of fair Imogene of Italy ; 
Mongst whom he parted his imperial state, 
And Locrine left chief lord of Britany. 

Locrine was left the soTereign lord of all ; 

Bat Albanaet had all the northern part, 

Which of himself Albania he did call ; 

And Camber did possess the western quart, 

Which Severne now from Logris doth de-part : 

And each his portion peaceably enjoy'cL 

Ne was there outward breach, nor grudge in heart* 

That once their ^uiet government annoyed, 

But each bis pains to other's profit still employed." 

All goes well with the sons of King Brute, until ** a 
nation strange with visage swart," the wandering Hwu, 
under their great king Hwmber, invade Britain with a 
great fleet. Locrine, however, goes bravely forth to 
battle and encounters the invaders in the north on the 
banks of Abus; and King H umber being defeated, 
gets drowned in the river, which from that time for- 
ward bore his name. After this great success Locrine 
falls into " vain voluptuous disease," and by living with 
a mistrjess provokes his wife to rebel and make war 
upon him. The queen is victorious; Locrine is de- 
feated and slain by an arrow, and his illegitimate 
daughter, the fair Sabrina "innocent of all," is thrown 
by the jealous and implacable queen into a river, which 
has thenceforth been called after the damsel's name 
Sabrina or Severn. Madun, the son of Locrine, suc- 
ceeds to the throne, and is in his turn succeeded by his 
son Mem price. After two more reigns Brute the Se- 
cond, surnamed " the Green-Shield," ascends the throne 
by regular hereditary succession, and raises the fame 
of the nation by his great victories in the countries 
which we now call France and Belgium : — 

" He with his victor sword first opened 
The bowels of wide France, a forlorn dame, 
And taught her first how to be conquered." 

Seill, the son of Brutus the Second, 

" Enjoy'd an heritage < 
And built Carlisle, and builtl 

Hudibras succeeds his father Seill, and teaches the 
land to live at peace. Bladud, the son of the pacific 
Hudibras, follows his father's footsteps, and becomes 
surpassingly learned in all the arts of Greece. He 
discovers the mineral-waters at Bath, 

"Which seeth with secret fire eternally," 

and builds baths and a city there, in order that the 
diseases of his subjects may be cured, and health im- 

Earted to every foreign nation. But, unfortunately, 
Ling Bladud is a necromancer, and must needs fly 
through air and far over earth, like the son of Daedalus ; 
and he thus falls into " fond mischief." £ According 
to our prose legendists his wings failed him, and he 
fell upon the temple of Apollo in Trinobant, or London, 
and there died, alter reigning twenty years.] Bladud 
is succeeded by his son Lear, to whom the genius of 
Shakspere has given an imperishable life and unques- 
tionable reality, and whose dramatic history is of more 
value than half of the authentic annals that are extant. 
Spenser's tale differs only in one capital circumstance 
from Sbakspere's play : the fair and generous Cordelia 
does not die during the struggle with her unnatural 
sisters ; she lives to triumph over GonerU and Regan, 
and to replace her father on the throne, on which Lear 
diet, after many happy years. As there is no successor 
in the male line, Cordelia succeeds her father as queen 
of the island, and for a long time reigns in peace, with 
all her subjects obedient to her :— 



* Till that her sisters children waxen strong, 
Through proud ambition against her rebel I'd, 
And overcomen kept in prison long, 
Till weary of that wretched lire herself she hong." 

" The bloody brethren,* 1 the sons of Goneril and 
Regan, now divide the island between them. After 
sundry other successions of kings whom he does little 
more than name, Spenser makes a halt at the fearful 
tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex. These two princes, the 
last of the line of the Trojan Brute, slay their father 
to get his dominions, and then make war upon one 
another. Ferrex, the elder, assembles a foreign army, 
but is defeated and slain by his brother. To avenge 
the death of her elder and favourite son, Wyden " most 
merciless of women," murders her other son Porrex 
while sleeping in his bed : — 

44 Here ended Brutus sacred progeny, 

Which had seven hundred years this sceptre borne, 

With high renown and great felicity ; 

The noble branch from th' antique stock was torn 

Through discord and the royal throne forlorn. 

Thenceforth this realm was into factions rent, 

Whilst each of Brutus boasted to be born, 

That in the end was left no moniment 

Of Brutus nor of Briton's glory ancient." 

This longanarchy is brightened, and in the end dis- 
sipated, by Donwallo, the son of Cloten, king of Corn- 
wall, "a man of matchless might, and wondrous wit," 
who subdues all his rivals, restores tranquillity and 
good government, and is the first king of Britain that 
ever wore a crown of gold. This Donwallo is the 
Numa Pompilius of our island, or the Alfred of an 
earlier age : — 

« Then made he sacred laws, which some men say 
Were unto him reveal'd in vision: 
By which he freed the traveller's high-way, 
The church's part, and ploughman's portion, 
Restraining stealth and strong extortion ; 
The gracious Numa of great Britany : 
For, till his days, the chief dominion 
By strength was wielded without policy ; 
Therefore he first wore crown of gold for dignity ." 

Donwallo is succeed by his two sons Brennus and 
Belinus, who ransack Greece, subject France and Ger- 
many, and threaten the city of Rome with destruction : 
for the Gaul Brennus of the Roman historians becomes 
BrennuB the Briton in the hands of our poet, who does 
but follow Geoffrey of Monmouth and one or two other 
chroniclers of the oldest age. 

Next reigns Gurgunt, son of the great Belinus, who 
subdues Easterland, wins Denmark, makes both these 
countries pay homage and tribute to him, and settles a 
colony of Spanish fugitives in Ireland, the said Spa- 
niards engaging to hold that island as subject to Bri- 
tain. Many kings of the same lineage reign in due 
succession, until we come to the comparatively modern 
days of King Lud, whose name is preserved (and long 
will be) in the name of Ludgate Street. As Spenser 
has it, he (Lud) 

" Left of his life most famous memory 
And endless moniments of his great good : 
The ruin'd walls he did re-edify 
Of Troynovant, 'gainst force of enemy, 
And built that gate which of his name is hight, 
By which he lies entombed solemnly." 

We are now near the eve of the first Roman invasion 
of our island. King Lud leaves two young and incom- 
petent sons, Androgeus and Tenantius, whom the 
people set aside, in order to place their maternal uncle 
Cassibalane, a brave warrior, upon the throne. Cas-' 
sibalane governs the land with great credit, until 
Julius Caesar is tempted hither by the famed beauty of 
the country, and by "hunger of dominion." The 
Romans came :— 



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" Yet twice they were repulsed back again, 
And twice renforc'd back to their ships to fly ; 
The whiles with blood they all the shore did stain, 
And the grey ocean into purple dye : 
Ne had they footing found at last perdie, 
Had not Androgeus, false to native soil, 
And envious of uncle's sovereignty, 
Betray'd his country unto foreign spoil, 
Nought else but treason from the first this land did foil. 

So by him Ceesar got the victory, 

Through great bloodshed and many a sad assay, 

In which himself was charged heavily 

Of hardy Neunius, whom he yet did slay, 

But lost his sword, yet to be seen this day. 

Thenceforth this land was tributary made 

T ambitious Rome, and did their rule obey, 

Till Arthur all that reckoning defray'd : 

Yet oft the Briton kings against them strongly sway'd." 

Such is a part of the almost purely legendary history 
which Spenser makes his two knights peruse in the 
ancient book called ' Briton Moniments,' found in the 
library of the " man of infinite remembrance." Milton's 
narrative in prose is almost a counterpart of this re- 
lation in verse ; but Milton, in detailing the Roman 
conquest, dwells upon those more positively historical 
facts which Spenser altogether omits as unsuited to 
the fairy tissue of his imaginative poem. The author 
of the * Fairy Queen* does not even mention the names 
of those strictly historical personages; but Milton, 
with the Roman historians for his guide, gives full 
and most animated accounts of the adventurous and 
patriotic struggles of Caractacus, Togodumnus, and 
Boadicea. Here we have a fine series of national 
pictures which may be correctly termed historical. 
Milton fights the last great battle of Caractacus in the 
noblest style. The British hero, knowing his infe- 
riority in strength, selects for the seat of his war a 
mountainous country (on the borders of Wales), where 
all the odds are to his own party, all the difficulties to 
his enemy. The hills and every access he fortifies 
with heaps of stones and guards of men ; to come at 
whom, a river of unsafe passage must be first waded. 
He himself continually goes up and down, telling his 
people and their leaders that this is the day, this the 
field, either to defend their liberty or to die free ; and 
calling to mind the names of his glorious ancestors, 
who drove Caesar the Dictator out of Britain, whose 
valour hitherto hath preserved them from bondage, 
their wives and children from dishonour. The Britons 
on the hill tops all vow to do their utmost, and show 
such undaunted resolution as amazes Ostorius, the 
Roman general. But after wary circumspections, 
Ostorius bids the Romans pass the river. The Britons 
no sooner have them witnin reach of their arrows, 
darts, and stones, than they slay and wound largely of 
the Romans. They on the other side serry their 
ranks, close their targets over their heads, throw down 
the loose ramparts of the British, and pursue them 
up the hills, both light armed and legions, till, what 
with galling darts and heavy strokes, the Britons, 
who wear neither helmet not cuirass to defend them, 
are at last overcome. Then we have the indomitable 
Caractacus in chains, led with his wife and family 
across the Alps and through the cities of Italy even 
unto Rome. We sec him marching triumphant in 
the triumphal procession, as if he yet remembered 
his nine vears of resistance and victory and glory. 
We see nim stand unmoved on the Capitol before 
the Emperor Claudius, and hear the magnanimous 
speech he delivers to the Roman tyrant, raising his 
manacled right arm, and rattling his chains as he 
speaks. The heart of Claudius is touched at such a 
spectacle of fortune, but especially at the nobleness of 
his bearing ; and he gives a pardon to Caractacus and 
to all the rest. The chains drop from the free-born Bri- 



tish warrior ; his wife, his children, and his friends and 
companions in captivity are all unbound ; and instead 
of being condemned to a perpetual prison, lite other 
barbarian kings and warriors, Caractacus lives at 
liberty and in high honour; for all Rome, all Italy 
have neard of his long resistance and of his greatness 
of soul under adversity.* 

Boadicea is driven into wars and fearful massacres 
by Roman tyranny and oppression, and by the unut- 
terable wrongs done to herself and her daughters by a 
lawless soldiery who couple lust with cruelty. The 
slaughter of seventy thousand Romans is foretold by 
many dismal omens. The image of victory in the 
Roman temple at Camulodunum falls down of itself 
with its face turned to the Britons ; certain women, 
in a kind of ecstasy, tell of calamities to come; 
in the council-house barbarous noises are heard by 
night ; in the theatre, hideous howlings ; in the creek 
are horrid sights, betokening the destruction of that 
colony ; the waters of the sea seem of a bloody hue, 
and at the ebb of tide human shapes are imprinted 
upon the sands. Then comes the massacre, and after 
that the battle between the British queen and the 
great Roman general Suetonius. A vast and open 
plain is covered with the combatants, and across it arc 
dashing the war-chariots of the British. The natives 
are a countless multitude, but disorderly and furious : 
it is not difficult to see that they are commanded not 
by an experienced and skilful leader like Caractacus, 
but by an infuriated woman. The Romans are few in 
number, but calm and collected, and perfect in dis- 
cipline. Suetonius is at the head of a legion, and con- 
temning the unruly noises and fierce looks of the mad 
crew, he heartens his men to stand close awhile, and 
strike manfully the headless rabble nearest to them — 
the rest will be a purchase rather than a toil. Queen 
Boadicea, with her dishonoured and weeping daughters 
sitting by her side, with their hands covering their 
faces to dash away their tears or to conceal their shame, 
stands erect in "her war-chariot with a spear in her 
hand, with her long yellow hair streaming to her feet ; 
and she harangues the nations, or tribes, each in its 
turn. On the skirts of the plain, on the flanks and in 
the rear of the Britons, are placed their carts and 
waggons, filled, say Borne, with their wives and children, 
who are there to behold the extermination of the 
Romans. The Roman legion moves, the battle joins, 
and presently it falls out just as Suetonius has pre- 
dicted ; for the legion, when they see their time, burst 
out like a violent wedge, and quickly break and dissi- 
pate what opposes them. All else only hold out their 
necks to the sword, for their own carts and waggons 
have been so placed by themselves as to leave them 
but little room tb escape between. The Romans slay 
all. Men, women, children, and the very drawing 
horses lie heaped along the field, in a gory mixture 
of slaughter. Fourscore thousand Britons perish on 
the field. Boadicea flies, takes poison, and dies. 

Milton, closely following Tacitus, gives a spirited 
description of trie conquest of the island of Mona, or 
Anglesey, the chief seat of the Druids, and the refuge- 
place of the defeated British warriors. The stern and 
awful genius of Michael Angelo might have taken 
inspiration from this brief and terrible narrative. The 
Roman general makes him boats with flat bottoms, 
fitted to the shallows which he expects to find in the 
narrow frith that separates the isle from the main- 
land of Wales. His foot so pass over, his horse wade 
or swim. Thick upon the shore stand several great 
bands of men well weaponed, many women like furies 
running to and fro in dismal habit, with hair loose 
about their shoulders, with torches in their hands. 
The Druids, with hands lifted up to heaven, are utter- 
• Milton, Hist. Eng. 



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ing direful prayers and astounding the Romans, who, 
at so strange a sight, stand in amaze, though wounded. 
At length awakening, and encouraged by their general 
not to fear a barbarous and lunatic rout, the Romans 
fall on, and beat them down, scorched and rolling, into 
their own fires. Then they are yoked with garrisons, 
and the places consecrate to their bloody superstitions 
destroyed. For whomsoever they took in war they held 
it lawtul to sacrifice ; and by the entrails of men they 
used divination.* 

England may be said to have had two fabulous and 
traditional eras ; the one which preceded the Roman 
Conquest, and another which followed the departure 
of those conquerors. During the Roman occupation 
of the island, the principal events which happened 
within it were pretty faithfully recorded by Koman 
writers, and by Greeks that were subjects of Rome ; 
but from the middle of the fifth century down to the 
middle of the seventh century no reliable annals were 
written ; and fable, traditions, and legends (some of 
them exceedingly striking and beautiful) took the 
place of sober matter-of-fact records. It was during 
this long period that the Saxons achieved the conquest 
of England, which was not entirely subdued until the 
Britons had struggled and fought for good two hundred 
years. It is to this period that King Arthur and his 
exploits belong. 

As the simple truth has been so mixed and overlaid 
with fiction, not a few of our modern writers have 
leaped to the conclusion that no such king or person 
as Arthur ever existed. Even Milton, with all his 
fondness for the legendary and more poetical parts of 
history, seems to take this view of 

" what resounds 
In fable or romance of Ulnar's son.** 

A modern writer of much learning and ingenuity sus- 
pects that instead of being a real, Arthur was only a 
mythological personage, or the chief divinity of that 
system of revived Druidism which appears to have 
arisen in the unconque red parts of the west of Britain 
after the departure of the Romans, the name of Arthur 
being often used in the poetry of the bards as the 
hieroglyphical representative of the system.! 

It is more generally admitted, however, that there 
really was a valiant prince of the old British race who 
fought many battles, and was finally slain in battle by 
the Saxon invaders, who were gradually and very 
slowly extending their dominion from the east and the 
south over the west and the north. It does not consist 
with the object we have in hand to enter into the dis- 
cussion of this historical doubt. We have started with 
assuming that subjects taken from the purely fabulous 
and traditional history of our country ought not to be 
excluded from our national Valhalla ; and that what a 
nation has once and for lonp ages believed, ought 
always to be allowed a place in that people's history. 
The belief may have been weakened or destroyed, but 
the name of the great Arthur, and the tales relating to 
him, are indestructible: they are thoroughly inter- 
woven in our literature ; they decorate some of our 
best poetry ; they are among the first names and stories 
we listen to and learn in our infancy. The name of 
Arthur is one of the most national and endearing of 
our names ; and it still, in common acceptance, if not 
etymologically, means Warrior and Hkro. That 
politic king, our Henry VI I., who prided himself in 
J lis ancient British or Welsh descent, conferred the 
name on his first-born son, who unfortunately died in 
early life, and made room in the succession for his 
younger brother, Henry VIII. *' The queen," says the 
great Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, in his ' Lite and 
Reign of King Henry VII.,' " was delivered of her first 



Milton, Hist 



f Britannia after the Romant. 



son, whom the king (in honour of the British race, of 
which himself was) named Arthur, according to the 
name of that ancient worthy king of the Britons, in 
whose acts there is truth enough to make him famous, 
besides that which is fabulous." 

The circumstances connected with this ancient and 
worthy king, which have generally been accepted as 
facts, are soon told. 

He was a prince of the north-western tribe of Bri- 
tons, called by the Roman writers Silures, and the son 
of King Uther, named Pendragon, or Dragon's Head, 
a title given to an elective sovereign who was nomi- 
nally paramount over the many kings of the island. 
The Pendragon was, in short, among British kings and 
princes, what the Bretwalda was among the Saxons; 
and his authority or supremacy over the confederation 
was greater or less, according to his valour, ability, and 
good fortune. Arthur succeeded his father Uther, and 
was raised to the Pendragonship in the first quarter of 
the sixth century. He owed his elevation to nis valour 
and success in war, and after he had attained to it he 
gained more victories over the Saxons. He began 
his career in the north-western corners of the island, 
into which the Britons had been driven by the invaders. 
Lancashire, and the regions still farther to the north, 
are supposed to have been the scene of his exploits, and 
of eleven out of twelve of his great victories ; but he 
advanced to the more fertile regions of the south, 
driving back Cedric the Saxon, and maintaining himself 
for a while in Hampshire, and even in Berkshire. 
His declining age was embittered by popular ingrati- 
tude and domestic treason. His nephew Modred con- 
federated with the Saxon king and conqueror Cedric, 
and this led to the fatal battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, 
which is supposed to have been fought about the year 
542. Arthur, being mortally wounded, was conveved 
by sea to Glastonbury, where he died and was buried. 
A popular tradition (which may, however, have arisen 
some centuries after his d ?cease) was long entertained 
among the people that he was not dead, but had been 
carried off to be healed of his wounds in Fairy-land, and 
that he would some day reappear to avenge his coun- 
trymen. 

But very different and far more poetical than this is 
the legendary history of the ancient hero. Here hia 
exploits are extended with a boldly poetical disregard 
to time and place, and the incidents of his life are re- 
lated with minute particularity. He owes his birth to 
magic, and retains through life the character and 
qualities of an Elfin king. He unites in his person 
the graces of Apollo and the terrors of Mars. He has 
an enchanted sword called Caliburn, and a lance 
called Rou, which none can resist: he flies from the 
mountains in the north of Scotland to the southern 
plains of England with the swiftness of an eagle : he 
not only defeats the Scots and Picts and the Saxons in 
many battles, but fairly drives the Saxons out of the 
island : he is the devoutest of all living Christians, the 
destroyer of the pagan temples of the Saxons, and the 
restorer of the Christian churches everywhere. The 
conquest of Ireland is but as a meal to him. He tra- 
verses the black waves of the Northern Ocean, and 
subdues Iceland, the head-quarters of devils and evil 
spirits. Norway and France are more difficult con- 
quests, but he completes them both in ten years. As 
the Romans dispute his possession of Gaul, he marches 
against them and defeats them ; and he is on the point 
of thundering through the passes of the Alps, in order 
to invade Italy, when he is recalled to England by the 
foul intelligence that his nephew Modred has revolted, 
and has allied himself with the Saxons, Scots, and 
Picts. Anon the good sword Caliburn flashes on the 
English shore. He gains a great victory on the coast 
of Kent, and another in Hampshire; ne drives the 



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traitor Modred into Cornwall, and there slays him in a 
great battle fought on the river Camlan ; but in this 
last affair Arthur is mortally wounded. 

Thus much is related as legendary history, yet 
seriously, by Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Welsh chronicler 
who wrote about the year 1128. But Geoffrey is a sober, 
dry, and unimaginative biographer of Arthur, compared 
with the poets and romance writers who treated of the 
same subject in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth 
centuries. The subject indeed took a wonderful hold 
of the imagination of all Europe during the ages of 
chivalry. Nearly every nation that had a literature 
took Arthur for a favourite hero, and added something 
to the glittering and stupendous pile of the romance. 
The people of Bretagne, who had an affinity in race and 
language with at least a {portion of the ancient inha- 
bitants of Britain, and at times a close intercourse and 
political connection with them, contributed much more 
than the English, or even than the Welsh, to the con- 
struction of these fables ; and King Arthur is still the 
favourite hero of the primitive peasantry of that most 
Celtic country. At a later period, the French took up 
the tale, and infused into it their own notions of gal- 
lantry and amourous intrigue, making Arthur's wife, 
the fair Guincver, a somewhat disreputable personage, 
and converting the Round Table into an assemblage of 
gallants, who, though sworn foes to pagans and idolaters, 
and champions of the Christian faith, have a sovereign 
contempt for the seventh and tenth commandments. 
All the famed romances, as * Merlin,' • Morte Arthur,' 
* Lancelot of the Lake,' * Tristan,' * Le Roman du Roy 
Artus, ct des Compagnons de la Table Ronde,'&c. &c, 
savour of the licentiousness of a more southern climate 
than that of England, and of the manners of an age at 
least six or seven centuries removed from that in which 
Arthur must have flourished, if he flourished at all. 

In the * Roman du Roy Artus,' &c., we have whole 
slices of hcraldrv. The Knights of the Round Table 
have each of them an armorial bearing, a peculiar 
device and motto of his own. Arthur carries for his 
arms thirteen golden crowns, with the motto •• Moult de 
couronncs plus de vertus." Lancelot of the Lake has six 
bends of or and azure, with the motto '* Haut en nais- 
sance en vaillancc en amour" Lancelot's brother Hector 
has a golden star, with the motto " Pour elrt heureux un 
bcl astre suffit" King Pharamond bears the fleur-de- 
lis, &c. In other respects, the story of the sixth cen- 
tury is modernized so as to bring it down to the man- 
ners and customs of the fourteenth century. The 
original type is almost wholly lost in these romances, in 
which the nationality of the subject disappears entirely, 
Arthur being as alien to England as is the Man in the 
Moon. It is not easy to give unto each the honours 
which might have been originally intended for him ; 
but Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, and 
Charlemagne and his Paladins, become, under the 
hands of these romance and ballad writers, almost 
identical in many particulars. The tales of both, 
written long after the death of Charlemagne, are cast 
in the same mould. Both, as Gibbon remarks, were 
faithfully copied from the manners of chivalry as they 
reigned at the time when the romance-writers lived. 
Both felt the deep impress of the adventures of an age 
posterior in date to either of them. '* Pilgrimage and 
the Holy wars introduced into Europe the specious 
miracles of Arabian magic. Fairies and giants, flying 
dragons, and enchanted palaces, were blended with the 
more simple fictions or the West ; and the fate of 
Britain depended on the art or the predictions of a 
Merlin. Every nation embraced and adorned the 
popular romance of Arthur and the Knights of the 
Round Table : their names were celebrated in Greece 
and Italy; and the voluminous tales of Sir Lancelot 
and Sir Tristram were devoutly studied by the princes 



and nobles, who disregarded the genuine heroes and 
historians of antiquity."* But not for this would we 
discard, or exclude from our Valhalla, the high em- 
prises, or even all the fabulous exploits of the immortal 
son of Uther Pen dragon — for immortal he is, unless we 
destroy a great part of our own literature and of the 
literature of Europe, and unless we enforce a change 
in the topical dictionary of our country. And who has 
given names to so many places and great natural 
objects as King Arthur ? Have we not Arthur's Seat, 
overhanging the antique city of Edinburgh? Have 
we not Arthur's Round Table in many parts of the 
island, and Arthur's Castle, and Palaces of Arthur in 
various districts of the kingdom ? Not satisfied with 
mere earth, and the coignes of vantage that are upon it, 
the Welsh have fixed bis name in the high Heavens, 
calling the constellation Lyra by the name of " Arthur's 
Harp." 

According to some traditions, Arthur, after receiving 
his deadly hurt on the banks of the river Camlan, in 
Cornwall, assumed the shape of a raven, a bird which it 
became a capital crime in Wales to destroy. In the read* 
ing of other traditions, after his disappearance from this 
world, he drove through the air in a chariot, with a 
prodigious noise and veldcity.t But the more generally 
received opinion was that his bones rested in Glaston- 
bury Abbey, awaiting the return of the spirit. In the 
year 1171, when Henry II. was in Wales, on the eve of 
embarking for Ireland to complete the conquest of 
that country, which had been commenced a short time 
before by some of his adventurous barons and knights, 
he was entertained by some Welsh harpers, or bards, 
who, among other things, sang a song or ode about 
King Arthur, who, according to the tradition, had sub- 
dued Ireland more than six hundred years before. It 
is a contemporary and a Welshman that relates what 
follows : — 

[Giraldus Cambrensis, or Gerald the Welshman, even 
tells us that he was an eye- witness.] Some time after 
his return from Ireland into England, Henry, eager to 
discover the relics of the ancient British hero, went to 
Glastonbury Abbey. The king told the Lord Abbot of 
Glastonbury that he had heard from some Welsh 
harpers that the body of King Arthur was buried 
between two stone pillars in the churchyard of the 
Abbey. The' Abbot called people to dig, and when 
they had dug about seven feet deep into the earth they 
found a great stone with a leaden cross fastened to that 
part which lay downwards ; and «m this rude leaden 
cross was inscribed in very rudt letters— " Hie jacet 
Sepultus Inclytus Rex Arturiu* in Insula Ava- 
lonia." £ When they had dug nine feet deeper they 
found, within a- great tree made hollow like a trough, 
bones of great bigness, and a large skull marked with 
ten wounds, one of these fractures being of great size, 
and looking like a mortal hurt. Arthur's queen, 
Guinever, was said to have been buried with him, and 
they found lying by his side a female skeleton, whose 
tresses of hair finely plaited, and in colour like gold, 
seemed perfect and sound until touched, when they 
fell to dust. The inscription on the leaden cross is 
said to have been copied and carefully preserved. 

More than a century after this exhumation, Edward I. 
and his queen, Eleanor, visited the relics of King 
Arthur, which were carefully kept within a marble 
tomb in the Treasury of Glastonbury Abbey, until the 

* Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 

f Dunlop, HUtory of Fiction. 

% '< Here lies buried the famous King Arthur, in the Isle of 
Avalon." 

The eminence on which Glastonbury stands if, even now, 
almost insulated by the surrounding marshy Hats. The ancient 
Britons called the isle by the name of" Ynswytryn,'* or tut 
glassy islamic \i afterwords got the name of AraloiL 



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suppression of that house by Henry VIII., when the 
Reformers destroyed them or scattered them about 

The first opening of the grave by Henry II., sur- 
rounded by his knights and barons, and by the abbot, 
prior, and monks of Glastonbury, would make a picture 
fit for dur Valhalla ; and would be a proper close to 
the legendary part of our picture history. 

Warton, who had within him the genius of a true 
poet, although it was repressed by the conventionalities, 
prettinesses, and affectations of the day in which he 
lived, has left a faulty, but still admirable passage, 
descriptive of some of the traditions connected with 
the son of Uther Pendragon. 

The Welsh bards have gathered from far and near to 
rejoice at the visit of Henry II. to Wales, and to do 
the king honour : — 

" Then gifted bards, a rival throng, 
From distant Mona, nurse of song, 
From Teivi fringed with umbrage brown, 
From Elvy'g ▼ale and Cader's crown, 
From many a sunless solitude 
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude, 
From many a shaggy precipice 
That shades Ierne s hoarse abyss, 
To crown the banquet's solemn close, 
Themes of, British glory chose. 

" O'er Cornwall's clifls the tempest roared, 

High the screaming seamew soared, 

On Tintaggel's topmost tower 

Darksome fell the sleety shower, 

When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks 

On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks, 

By Modred's faithless guile decreed 

Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed ! 

Yet, in vain, a Pavnim foe 

Aimed with fete the mighty blow ; 

For when he fell, an Elfin Queen, 

All in secret and unseen, 

O'er the fainting hero threw 

Her mantle of ambrosial blue ; 

And bade her spirits bear him far, 

In Merlin's agate-axled car, 

To her green isles enamelled steep, 

Far in the navel of the deep. 

O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew, 

From flowers that in Arabia grew • 

On a rich enchanted bed 

She pillowed his majestic head ; 

O'er his brow, with whispers bland, 

Thrice she waved an opiate wand ; 

And to soft music's airy sound, 

Her magic curtains closed around : 

There, renew'd the vital spring, 

Again he reigns a mighty king ; 

And many a fair and fragrant clime, 

Blooming in immortal prime, 

By gales of Eden ever fanned, 

Owns the monarch's high command : 

Thence to Britain shall return, 

If right prophetic rolls I learn, 

Borne on victory's spreading plume, 

His ancient sceptre to resume ; 

Once more in old heroic pride, 

His barbed courser to bestride ; 

His knightly table to restore, 

And brave the tournaments of yore." 

He ceased : when on the tuneful stage 
Advanced a bard of aspect sage. 
«* When Arthur bowed his haughty crest, 
No princess veiled in azure vest 
Snatched him by Merlin's potent spell, 
In groves of golden bliss to dwell; 



Where, crowned with wreaths of misletoe, 

Slaughtered kings in glory go. 

But when he fell, with winged speed 

His champions on a milk-white steed, 

From the battle's hurricane, 

Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,* 

In the fair vale of Avalon : 

There, with chaunted orison 

And the long blaze of tapers clear, 

The stoled fathers met the bier ; 

Through the dim aisles in order dread 

Of martial woe the chief they led, 

And deep entombed in holy ground 

Before the altar's solemn bound : 

Around no dusky banners wave, 

No mouldering trophies mark his grave ; 

The faded tomb, with honour due, 

'Tis thine, O Henry 1 to renew. 

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze, 

On his gigantic stature gaze ; 

There snalt thou find the monarch laid, 

All in warrior weeds arrayed, 

Wearing in death his helmet crown, 

And weapons huge of old renown: — 

Martial prince, 'tis thine to save 

From dark oblivion Arthur's Grave." 

* According to the monkish legends, the church at Glaston- 
bury (the first Christian church erected in this island of Great 
Britain) was founded by Joseph of Arimathea. 



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(Carlisle Cathedral, from the North.] 



CARLISLE CATHEDRAL. 

Carlisle is situated on an elevation which rises from 
the banks of the Eden and its affluents the Caldew 
and the Peteril; and as the cathedral occupies the 
highest ground near the centre of the city, it is con- 
spicuous many a mile from the comparatively level but 
rich and beautiful country around it. The entire 
structure is of red freestone, coarse but very durable. 
The original form was, as usual, a cross, but upwards 
of ninety feet of the nave, or west end, were pulled 
down by the adherents of Cromwell, and the mate- 
rials used to repair the walls and castle, and to build a 
guard-house. The opening was walled up, and the 
part of the nave which remained was converted into 
the parish church of St. Mary. This part of the struc- 
ture is of early Norman architecture, and exceedingly 
massive, with semicircular arches resting on pillars 
only fourteen feet two inches in height, and nearly 
six feet in diameter. The choir, where the cathedral 
service is performed, is of Gothic architecture. The 
annexed cut exhibits the top of the east end, which is 



a gable with a turret on each side, and ornamented 
with pinnacles, each of which is surmounted by a cross. 
A small window of Gothic tracery fills the centre of 
the gable above the great east window. The arches 

no. 824. 



are pointed and highly ornamented ; the columns are 
clustered, and the capitals adorned with figures and 
flowers in open carved work ; the ceiling, originally 
of timber, is now of stucco, in imitation of groined 
vaulting. The stalls are of rich tabernacle work. 
The tracery of the upper part of the east window, 
which is forty-eight feet hieh by thirty feet wide, is 
filled with stained glass. The following cut exhibits 



one of the side windows of the choir : the choir alto- 
gether is a work of great elegance and magnificence. 

The tower, which rises above the centre of the 
transepts, is square and embattled, with a small turret 
at the north-east angle. It was originally surmounted 
by a spire, fourteen feet high, covered with lead, which, 
being found in a state of decay, was taken down after 
the Restoration. 

The choir is one hundred and thirty-seven feet long, 
seventy-one feet wide, including the aisles, and seventy- 
five feet high. The transepts are one hundred and 
twenty-four feet long, and twenty-eight feet wide. 
The portion of the nave which constitutes St. Mary's 
Church is forty-three feet long. The entire length of 
the nave was about one hundred and thirty feet, so that 
the entire length of the cathedral was originally 
about three hundred feet. The height of the tower 

Vol. XIV.— a 



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is one hundred and thirty feet from the floor of the 
cathedral. 

Carlisle was originally included in the bishopric of 
Lindisfarn, which, in consequence of the attacks of 
the Danes, was removed to Durham in 995, when the 
bishopric of Lindisfarn became the bishopric of Dur- 
ham. In the reign of William Rufuis Walter, a Norman, 
began to build a priory at Carlisle, which was com- 
pleted and endowed in 1101 by Henry I., who made his 
confessor Athelwald the first prior, as the head of a 
body of regular canons of the order of St. Augustine. 
It is probable that the cathedral was originally built 
as the church of the priory. The bishopric of Carlisle 
was established by Henry I. in 1133, Athelwald was 
made the first bishop as well as the first prior, and 
Carlisle became independent of the see of Durham, to 
which it had, up to that time, continued to belong. 
Disputes afterwards arose between the prior and 
bishop as to the property of the two foundations. On 
their mutual petition, however, a division was made by 
Gallo, the pope's legate, and the disputes then ceased. 
In 1229 the manor of Dalston was granted to the 
bishopric of Carlisle, and Rose Castle, appurtenant to 
the manor, has from that time been the residence of 
the bishops, who do not appear to have ever had an 
episcopal residence at Carlisle. 

In 1292 the cathedral was burnt, but the fire does 
not seem to have destroyed the heavy pillars, walls, 
and arches of the nave, which are obviously the work 
of the earliest Norman architects, if they do not belong 
to some church of even earlier date of which all record 
has been lost. Considerable grants were made by 
Edward I. in 1294 and again in 1304 in consideration 
of the great injury which the bishop, prior, and con- 
vent had sustained " by the burning of their houses 
and churches, and divers depredations of the Scots." 
The injury done to the nave was soon repaired, but 
the present choir was not built till the reign of Edward 
III. It was begun by Bishop Walton, whose bishopric 
extended from 1352 to 1363, and completed by his suc- 
cessor Bishop Appleby, whose bishopric extended to 
1396. The tower was built by Bishop Strickland, 
whose bishopric extended from 1400 to 1419. These 
great architectural works were not accomplished with- 
out a large expenditure of money, which was partly 
obtained by subscriptions and partly by the sale of 
indulgences and remissions of penance to such of the 
laity as by money, materials, or labour, assisted in the 
accomplishment of the pious work. 

The priory was resigned to Henry VIII. Jan. 9, 
1540, and the corporation of dean and chapter esta- 
blished in 1542, Lancelot Salkeld, the last prior, being 
appointed the first dean. The clear yearly revenue 
of the priory was valued at 418/. 3*. 4d. ; that of 
the bishopric, at the same time, being valued at 
531/. 4*. lid. 

Most of the conventual buildings were taken down 
in Cromwell's time, as well as the greater part of the 
nave, and were employed in repairing the walls and 
castle. The cloisters and chapter house were de- 
stroyed, except a very small part of the cloisters. 
The deanery however is a part of the monastic build- 
ings, and the refectory, now called the Fratry, has 
become the chapter-house. 

On the south side of the choir, adjoining the transept, 
is a small chapel, which was erected by John de Ca- 
pe) la, a citizen of Carlisle, and dedicated to St. 
Catharine. 

In the aisles of the choir are a series of curious 
legendary paintings, illustrative of the lives and mira- 
cles of St. Anthony, St. Cuthbert, and St. Augustine ; 
they are painted in the pannels of the screens, and 
over each is a distich in rhyme, explanatory of the 
circumstance represented. The figures and devices 



are exceedingly rude, and later ecclesiastics, ashamed 
of the work of their predecessors, had covered them 
with whitewash, in consequence of which they have 
been much more impaired and obscured than they 
otherwise would have been. Some of the figures 
indeed are ridiculous enough, such as the devil with a 
bull's head and a long tail; but they embody the 
popular superstitions of those days, and are worth 
preserving as memorials of the barbarism which has 
passed away. The verses are even more uncouth than 
the paintings, and are probably a genuine specimen of 
the language of the border counties about the time 
when the choir was built. 

There is also a curious painted ceiling in one of tht 
rooms of the deanery. It is in many compartments, 
and consists of angels holding shields of arms, with 
labels inscribed with sentences of piety or supplication, 
and ornamented with roses, birds, scollop-shells, &c. 
On the sides of the cross-beams are several rude cou- 
plets. It was the work of Symon Senus (Simon Sen- 
house), who became prior about 1507 : it has the fol- 
lowing inscription : — 

Symon Senut, Prior, sette yii roofe and icallope here, 

To the intent wythin thy§ place they shall have prayer* every 

daye in the year. 
Lofe God and thy prynce, and you neydii not dreid thy enimys. 

There are a few monuments of early bishops in the 
cathedral. Bishop Bell, who died in 1478, has a 
monumental brass, with his effigy, in the middle of the 
choir ; but the most interesting monument is the brass 
plate on the north side of the choir, to the memory of 
Bishop Robinson, who was born in Carlisle about 
1556 ; he was sent to Queen's College, Oxford, at first 
as " a poor serving child," where he received his edu- 
cation, and of which he became provost. The brass 
plate is full of figures, devices, and Latin inscriptions, 
and is very elaborately engraved. The bishop is repre- 
sented kneeling in his episcopal robes, holding the 
crosier in one hand and a lighted candle in the other, 
together with a cord, to which are attached three dogs 
guarding three shepherds from the attacks of wolves. 
Beneath the candle is a group of figures, with imple- 
ments of industry, and near them a wolf playing with 
a lamb. Behind the bishop is a building round the 
sides of a quadrangular court, apparently intended for 
Queen's College ; and over this is a cathedral, with a 
group of figures on the steps, one of whom is kneeling 
and receiving a benediction. Near the top of the plate 
is an angel bearing a label inscribed in Greek, " To 
the Bishops." There are several Latin inscriptions 
referring to the different representations, besides the 
inscription in Latin at the bottom, " To Henry Robin- 
son, D.D., a most careful provost of Queen's College, 
Oxford, and afterwards a watchful bishop of this 
church for eighteen years, who, on the 13th of July, in 
the year from the delivery of the Virgin 1616, and of 
his age 64, devoutly resigned his spirit to the Lord 
Bernard Robinson, his brother and heir, had this 
memorial placed here as a testimony of his love." 

The choir was repaired in 1764, and was then wain- 
scoted with oak, from a design by Lord Camelford, 
nephew of Bishop Lyttleton, who then held the see. 
The removal of the timber roof at the same time has 
before been mentioned. 

The bishopric of Carlisle was valued by the Ecclesi- 
astical Commissioners in 1835 at 2213/. net yearly « 
income, or about 3000/. gross; there is a temporary 
charge on the income for repairing and partly re- 
building Rose Castle, which will cease in 1853. The 
bishopric was extended by an Act of William IV., so 
as to include those parts of Cumberland and West- 
moreland which had previously belonged to the bi- 
shopric of Chester, and also the deanery of Fumes and 



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Cartmel in Lancashire, and the parish of Aldeston in 
the county of Durham. By the same act the income 
was increased to 4000/. per annum. 

The corporation of dean and chapter consists of a 
dean, four canons, six minor canons, and other officers. 
The average net income was estimated in 1835 at 
5318/. 



Scenery of South Africa. — " At every step we take," says be, 
" what thousands and tens of thousands of gay flowers rear their 
lovely heads around us ! Of a surety the enthusiasm of the 
botanist has not painted the wonders of these regions in colours 
more brilliant than they deserve ; for Afric is the mother of the 
most magnificent exotics that grace the green-house • of Europe. 
Turn where we will, tome new plant discovers itself to the admir- 
ing gaxe, and every barren rock being decorated with some large 
and showy blossom, it can be no exaggeration to compare the 
country to a botanical garden left in a state of nature. The regal 
Protea, for whose beauties we have from childhood entertained an 
almost instinctive respect, here blossoms spontaneously on every 
side, the buzzing host of bees, beetles, and other parasites by 
which its choice sweets are surrounded, being often joined by 
the tiny humming-bird, herself scarcely larger than a butterfly, 
who perches on the edge of a broad flower, and darts her tubular 
tongue into the chalice. But the bulbous plants must be consi- 
dered to form the most characteristic class : and in no region of 
the globe are they to be found so numerous, so varied, or so beau- 
tiful. To the brilliant and sweet-smelling Ixia, and to the su- 
perb species of the iris, there is no end ; the morel 1, the com -flag, 
the amaryllis, the hamanthus, and pancratium, being countless as 
the sands upon the sea-shore. After the autumnal rains their 
pmdy flowers, mixed with those of the brilliant orchid®, impart 
hie and beauty, for a brief season, to the most sandy wastes, and 
covering alike the meadows and the foot of the mountains, are 
succeeded by the gnaphalium, the xerantbemum, and a whole 
train of everlastings, which display their red, blue, or silky white 
flowers among a host of scented geraniums, flourishing like so 
many weeds. Even in the midst of stony deserts arise a variety 
of aloes and other fleshy plants — the stapelia, or carrion-flower, 
with square, succulous, leaflets stems, and flowers resembling 
star-fish, forming a numerous and highly eccentric genus, in 
odour so nearly allied to putrescent animal matter, that insects 
are induced to deposit their larvse thereon. The brilliant mesan- 
bryantheraum, or fig marigold, comprising another genus almost 
peculiar to South Africa, extends to nearly three hundred 
species, and whilst they possess a magazine of juices, which en- 
ables them to bear without shrinking a long privation of moisture, 
their roots are admirably calculated to fix the loose shifting 
sands which form the superficies of so large a nortiou of the soil. 
But amid this gay and motley assemblage, toe heaths, whether 
in number or in beauty, stand confessedly unrivalled. Nature 
has extended that elegant shrub to almost every soil and situa- 
tion — the marsh, the river brink, the richest loam, and the barest 
mural cliff, being alike 

M « Empurpled with the heather's dye.' 

" Upwards of three hundred and fifty distinct species exist, nor 
is the form of their flowers less diversified than are their varied 
hues. Cup-shaped, globular, and bell-shaped, some exhibit the 
figure of a cone, others that of a cylinder ; some are contracted 
at the base, others in the middle, and still more are bulged out 
like the mouth of a trumpet. Whilst many are smooth and 
glossy, some are covered with down, and others, again, are 
encrusted with mucilage. Red in every variety and depth of 
shade, from blush to the brightest crimson, is their prevailing 
complexion; but green, yellow, and purple are scarcely less 
abundant, and blue is almost the only colour whose abseuce cau 
be remarked. 

"<In emerald tufts, flowers purple, pink, and white, 
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery 
Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee, 
Fairies use flowers for their charactery.' " 
— Sir Jl\ C. Harriee Portrait* (fc n «/ the IVM Animate ef 
Southern Africa. 



The R6btn of New South IVakn. — Very few birds came near 
our house, but among those few was the robin (Petroka Phoe- 
nkea ?), a* much more beautiful hi plumage as he is inferior in 



note to our winter darling in England, but with exactly the 
same jaunty air, and brisk, quick manner. His attire is, I 
really think, the most exquisite of all the feathered creatures 
here: the breast is the most vivid geranium-colour, softening to 
a paler shade towards the wings, which are glossy black, with 
clear white markings across them ; the back is also black, with 
a white spot on the crown of the head, and the tail-feathers are 
also barred with white. The colours are so clear and distinct as 
almost to convey the idea of different garments put on and fitted 
with the most exquisite taste ; whilst the gay, frolicsome air, and 
intelligent, bright, black eyes of the little beau, tell you that he 
is by no means unconscious of the very favourable impression his 
appearance must create. He hops about, sings a few notes of a 
soft, lively little song ; flies to a rail or low tree, and arranges 
some fancied impropriety in a wing-feather ; then surveys the 
glossy spread of his tail as he peeps over his shoulder, and after 
a few more hops, and another small warble, very sweet aud very 
low — a passing glance, like the flash of a tiny flambeau, and he 
is gone.— Notee and Sketches of New South fValee, 6y Mrs. Char lee 
Meredith. 



Sports of Bokhara. — Among the tribes who possess large herds 
of horses, such as the Naimen-khitai and others, there exists a 
game among the young people called kuk-bari, which may be 
described as follows: — A hundred or more riders assemble 
together; and having chosen one from their party, they send 
him to fetch a kid out of the flock belonging to the master whose 
guests they happen to be. The messenger, on fulfilling bis 
errand, cuts the throat of the kid, and, grasping it firmly with 
his right hand by the two hind-legs, hastens to join the party. 
The latter, as soon as they espy him returning from a distance, 
press forward to meet him, and endeavour to wrest the slaugh- 
tered animal from his grasp. Whenever any one obtains the 
rare success of snatching away the whole carcass, or even only a 
limb or fragment of it, he sets off in his turn, pursued by such 
of.his companions as are desirous of sharing the spoil. Tbo 
game lasts until one of the party succeeds in carrying off a large 
slice of the meat to his home, and in screening himself from 
further pursuit The excitement of the game is carried to such 
an excess, that murders are not seldom committed. Custom, 
which has acquired in this instance the force of law, forbids the 
relations of the murdered to seek redress at the hands of the mur 
derers, if it can be proved that the deceased was killed at the 
game of kuk-bari. I have been told that even the Amir, when 
he visits Samarkand in autumn, takes part in these games, and 
is not offended if pushed by any one, or if he happens to receive 
a lash with a whin, as the latter can hardly be avoided at the 
first scramble for toe slaughtered kid ; because all the riders get 
jammed together, and theti each with his kamchik deals blows 
right and left, endeavouring to clear the way for his horse. — 
Bokhara : ite Amir and itt Peoples by the Baron C. de Bode. 



Avalanche* of the Alpt. — You hear the thunder of the unseen 
avalanches among the recesses of the mountains, and the con- 
viction that you are close to the unmelting miracle which defies 
the scorching yet becomes yet more intense; — but it shall be 
disturbed — how t By the sight of that which, unseen, was so 
terrible! From some jutting knob, of the size of a cricket-ball, 
a handful of snow is puffed into the air, and lower down — on 
the neighbouring slant — you observe veins of white substance 
creaming down the crevices — like the tinsel streams in the dis- 
tance of a pretty scene in an Easter melo-drama quickened by a 
touch of magic wand — aud then a little cloud of snow, as from 
pelting fairies, rises from the frostwork basin — and then a sound 
as of a thunder-clap — all is still and silent — aud this is an 
avalanche! If you can believe this — can realize the truths that 
snow and ice have been just dislodged in power to crush a human 
village — you may believe in the distance at which you stand 
from the scene, and that your eye is master of icy precipices 
embracing ten miles 1 perpendicular ascent ; but it is a difficult 
lesson ; and the disproportion between the awful sound and the 
pretty sight renders it harder. We euw two avalanches during 
the hour and a half which we spent in front of the cottage ; — and 
learned two other illustrations of the truth that, amidst the gran- 
deurs of the universe, 4 * seeing" is not always '* believing." — Mr. 
Serj. TaffourtTe Vacation Kamblee. 



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"Primaticcio. 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 

PAINTERS.- No. XXXVI. 

Scholars of Raphael — continued. 

Primaticcio, Niccolo dkl Abate, Rosso, and 
others who worked with them, are designated in the 
history of art as the * Fontainebleau School/ of which 
Primaticcio is considered the chief. 

Giovanni da Udine, who excelled in painting 
animals, flowers, and still life, was Raphael's chief 
assistant in the famous arabesques of the Vatican. 

Peri no del Vaga, another of Raphael's scholars, 
carried his style to Genoa, where he was chiefly em- 
ployed ; and Andrea di Salerno, a far more charming 
painter, who was at Rome but a short time, has left 
many pictures at Naples, nearer to Raphael in point 
of feeling than those of other scholars who had studied 
under his eye for years : Andrea seems also to have been 
allied to his master in mind and character, for Raphael 
parted from him with deep regret. 

Polidoro Caldara, called from the place of his 
birth Polidoro da Caravaggio, was a poor boy who had 
been employed by the fresco painters in the Vatican 
to carry the wet mortar and afterwards to grind their 
colours : he learned to admire, then to emulate what he 
saw, and Raphael encouraged and aided him by his in- 
structions. The bent of Polidoro's genius as i^ deve- 
loped itself was a curious and interesting compound 
of his two vocations. He had been a mason, or what 
we should call a bricklayer's boy, for the first twenty 



years of his life. From building houses be took to 
decorating them, and from an early familiarity with 
the remains of antiquity lying arourd him, the mind 
of the uneducated mechanic became unconsciously 
imbued with the very spirit of antiquity ; not one ot 
Raphael's scholars was so distinguished for a classica. 
purity of taste as Polidoro. H* minted chiefly in 
chiaro-scuro (that is, in two co.-urs, light and shade), 
friezes, composed of processions of figures, such as we 
see in the ancient bas-reliefs, sea and river gods, 
tritons, bacchante, fawns, satyrs, cupids. At Hampton 
Court there are six pieces of a small narrow frieze, 
representing boys and animals, which apparently formed 
the top of a bedstead or some other piece of furniture ; 
these will give some faint idea of the decorative style 
of Polidoro. This painter was much employed at 
Naples and afterwards at Messina, where he was as- 
sassinated by one of his servants for the sake of his 
money. 

Pelleorino da Modena, an excellent painter, and 
one of Raphael's most valuable assistants in his sculp- 
ture subjects, carried the ' Roman school' to Modena. 

At this time there was in Ferrara a school of painters 
very peculiar in style, distinguished chiefly by extreme 
elegance of execution, a miniature-like neatness in the 
details, and deep, vigorous, contrasted colours— as 
intense crimson, vivid green, brilliant white, approx- 
imated—a little grotesque in point of taste, and rather 
like the very early German school in feeling and treat- 
ment, but with more grace and ideality. There is 



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a picture in our National Gallery by Mazzolino da 
Ferrara (No. 82), which will give a very good idea 
of this style, both in its beauties and its singularities. 



[From the Rape of the Sabine*, by Polidori.] 



CHEVALIER BAYARD.. 

(Concluded from page 32.) 

Next year Bayard was present at the taking of Bre- 
scia, where he gave an eminent example of the noble 
generosity of a true knight. He was the first to enter 
the town, but in doing so was wounded in the thigh 
by a pike, which broke and left the head hanging in 
the wound. As soon as the place was taken Bayard 
was laid on a door torn from the nearest house and car- 
ried to a large mansion close by. The master of this 
mansion had fled for refuge to a monastery ; leaving 
his wife and daughters "in the Lord's keeping." 
When the soldiers knocked at the door the mother, 
putting her trust in God, opened it herself; and when 
the good knight was carried inside she cast herself at 
his feet and besought him to spare and protect her 
daughters and herself. Madam, ne replied, 1 may not 
recover from this wound, but while I live no wrong 
shall be done to you or your daughters, only let them 
keep in their chambers and not suffer themselves to 
be seen by the soldiers. Then he placed some of his 
own men at the door of the house as a guard and that 
it might be known who was within ; and having learnt 
where the master of the house might be found, he sent 
an escort to bring him safely home to his family. 
Great was the joy of all of them at such treatment, but 



still " they looked upon themselves as his prisoners, 
and all they possessed as his property, this being the 
case with the other houses which had fallen into the 
hands of the French." But seeing his generous tem- 
per, they trusted he would not enforce a ruinous 
ransom ; and so on the day he was about to depart, 
having recovered from his wound sufficiently to rejoin 
the army, his hostess entered his room and fell on 
" both her knees before him, but he immediately raised 
her up, and would not suffer her to say a word till 
she was seated by his side." Then, with many acknow- 
ledgments of his kindness, and entreating his further 
compassion, she offered to him a little steel box full of 
ducats, saying, " here is a little present which we have 
made for you, be pleased to take it in good part" 
Bayard, laughing, inquired how many ducats it con- 
tained ; she, fearing he was offended at the smallness 
of the present, replied, only two thousand five hundred, 
but if he was not content therewith, they would pro- 
cure a larger number. But he refused to take any, 
saying, " On my honour, madam, had you given me an 
hundred thousand crowns, I should not stand so much 
beholden to you as I do for the pood entertainment 
and careful attendance I have received at your hands ; 
be assured that wherever I may be, you shall have a 
gentleman at your service as long as God permits me 
to live." However, she the more earnestly pressed 
him to accept that small gift as a tribute of their 
esteem, till at length he took the box and sent her for 
her daughters, who were very fair and gentle maidens, 
and used to play cunningly on tl.e lute and the vir- 
ginals, singing very sweetly at the same time, where- 
with they greatly solaced the good knight during his 
sickness. When they came he told them that their 
mother had constrained him to accept so many ducats, 
which he divided into three parts, giving to each of 
them one thousand of the ducats as a marriage por- 
tion : the five hundred he placed in the hands of his 
hostess, requesting her to distribute them on his behoof 
among the nuns whose convents had been pillaged. 
So great was the gratitude of this family that it moved 
the good knight to tears. " As he quitted his chamber 
to get on horseback the two fair damsels of the bouse 
came down, and each made him a present, which they 
had made during his illness. One of these gifts was a 
pretty neat pair of bracelets, delicately composed of 
fine gold and silver threads ; the other a purse of crim- 
son satin, most curiously wrought. He gave them 
many thanks, and said the presents came from such 
good hands that he should value them at ten thousand 
crowna. And to honour them more, he had the brace- 
lets put upon his arms, and placed the purse in his 
sleeve, declaring that he would wear them as long as 
they lasted for their sakes." When he rejoined the 
army, says the loyal servant, " he was welcomed with 
such demonstrations of joy that it seemed as if, at his 
coming, the army had received a reinforcement of ten 
thousand men." 

What else remains to be told of the good knight we 
must relate more summarily. He was present at the 
battle of Ravenna, where he greatly distinguished him- 
self. When the French forces retreated after that 
event he was wounded in the neck ; be being, as was 
usual on such occasions, in the rear. Foremost in a 
charge, last in a retreat, indeed came to be his esta- 
blished place, and if his valour in advancing often con- 
tributed greatly to a victory, his equanimity in retiring 
not seldom tended mainly to preserve the army from 
destruction. Thus at the battle of Terouanne, in 1513, 
known as the Battle of Spurs, from the eagerness the 
French, showed to escape from the field, owing, as the 
loyal servant says, to mistaken orders, when the panic 
seized the gendarmerie, Bayard with fourteen of his 



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[February 1, 



followers (and never had commander more devoted 
ones) determined to make a stand at a narrow pass 
where a bridge crossed a brook, and so give time to 
the Frcncli cavalry to rally or to secure their retreat. 
" Go and tell them," he said to one of his men, ** that 
the enemy will be half-an-hour gaining this bridge." 
He thus saved the French army, but was himself made 
prisoner. When taken to the English camp Maximi- 
lian, who was serving with the English King, said 
tauntingly, •• I thought Bayard never fled." " Had I 
fled, sire, he answered, " I should not be here now." 
The youthful Francis I. had no sooner been proclaimed 
king than, athirst for martial glory, he led an army 
across the Alps, resolved to attempt the recovery of 
the duchy of Milan ; but a powerful combination had 
been formed against him, and a large army was already 
afield. The hostile forces met at Marignano (Sept. 
13, 1515). Opposed to the French were the Spanish 
and Italian troops, aided by a considerable body of 
Swiss infantry. The encounter was terrible, making 
all other battles in which the veterans present had 
before engaged "appear but childish sport in the com- 
parison." The battle lasted two days, and the carnage 
was shocking. Of the Swiss alone upwards of ten 
thousand, or, as some averred, nearly fitteen thousand 
perished. The French were victorious, and Francis, 
who had beheld the prodigies of valour the good knight 
accomplished, requested and received the honour of 
knighthood from him upon the field. 

The death of Bayard occurred in 1524. He was with 
the army sent to oppose the Spanish forces under the 
celebrated Constable Bourbon. The French commander 
Bonnivet was quite unequal to the difficulties of his posi- 
tion, and Bayard in vain remonstrated with him on the 
imprudence of his course. After various successes the 
French were compelled to retreat, but were overtaken 
near the Sesia by the Imperialists, who attacked them 
with great fury, tfonnivet was wounded, and he consigned 
the direction of the army to Bayard, who received the 
charge sorrowfully, remarking, " It is too late." While 
conducting the rear and exhorting his men at- arms to 
i .treat as orderly as if they were marching in their 
own country, he was struck by a stone from a harque- 
bus, which fractured his spine, and feeling that his 
wound was mortal, he exclaimed, " O God, I am slain." 
His steward, Jacques Jouffroy, assisted him to dis- 
mount, and the good knight said to him, " Let me be 
laid down at the foot of this tree, and place me that I 
may face the enemy," adding that he had never turned 
his back to him yet and would not begin now he was dy- 
ing. Then he addressed himself to the offices of rel igion : 
holding the cross of his sword before him he confessed 
to his steward, there being no priest at hand. A Swiss 
captain proposed to carry him off upon pikes, but he 
would not allow it; his life, he said, was fast ebbing 
away, and he entreated to be permitted to employ the 
little that remained of it in thinking about his soul. 
Nor would he allow his friends to remain with him, as 
they would gladly have done, but besought them to 
care for themselves, charging them at the same time 
with salutations for his noble friends in France: Jouf- 
froy alone he permitted to stay. When the Marquis 
of Pescara, who commanded a part of the pursuing 
army, reached the spot where Bayard lay, he directed 
a tent to be pitched for him, and all possible care be- 
stowed upon him. At the same time he pronounced 
over him a lofty eulogium in the Spanish language, 
declaring that "though his master had no more formid- 
able adversary in his wars," he would gladly "part 
with a quart of his own blood (could that be done with- 
out loss of life), and abstain from flesh for two years, 
or give the half of all he possessed in the world," rather 
than "all knighthood should sustain so heavy a loss, 1 ' 



So died Bayard, like his ancestors, on Uie field of 
battle. When the news of his death arrived the lament 
ation was universal, not only throughout France, but 
wherever knighthood was held in estimation. The 
honours paid to his remains were proportionable to the 
regret for his loss. The Spanish general directed his 
body to be embalmed and sent home. The Duke of 
Savoy, through whose domains it was to pass, com- 
manded that the same observances should be shown to 
it as if it were that of his own brother. When it 
arrived at Grenoble, his native place, the magistrates, 
the nobles of the surrounding country, and most of the 
inhabitants, went out in solemn procession to meet it, 
and conducted it to a convent, founded by his uncle 
the Bishop of Grenoble, at Minims, about naif a mile 
from the city, where it was finally deposited. 

Our outline of the good knight's life is slight, but 
sufficient, perhaps, to exhibit some of the more pro- 
minent features of his character. In the pages of his 
biographer he may be seen at full length. His valour 
reads like that of the Homeric heroes ; and his judg- 
ment in counsel was held in casual estimation with his 
courage. His personal disposition, the loyal servant, 
who had the best means of judging, declares was no 
less admirable than either : indeed ne passionately ex- 
presses his belief, '* that since the creation of the world, 
neither among Christians nor Heathens, hath any 
human being appeared that hath done less that is dis- 
honourable or more that is honourable than he." Dur- 
ing his life he maintained many families whose circum- 
stances had become reduced, though his benevolence 
was not known till after his death. The instances we 
have given of his humanity and generosity were by no 
means uncommon ones. In speaking, however, of the 
humanity of Bayard, the times in which he lived must 
be borne in mind or a false impression may be con- 
veyed. He was more humane than his compeers, but 
not more than his time or his order. Chivalry was an 
institution for the noble ; it stooped not to the lowly ; 
and Bayard's courtesy ranged only within the same 
limits. Accordingly his biographer, while he tells how 
knights are succoured and, though made prisoners, 
treated with all honour, says also, " the country sol- 
diers" are " killed like cattle ;" not, we may hope, by 
Bayard's will, though he does not appear ever to have 
thought about them. Again, while gentlemen are 
commended for making a gallant defence, when some 
country-people, who have stood out stoutly, are taken, 
it is tried M whether their necks are strong enough to 
carry a battlement" His well-known aversion to gun- 
powder, which was coming into pretty general use to- 
wards the end cf his career, arose mainly from its level- 
ling character, ** it being a great heart sore to him that 
a valiant man should be slam by a paltry pitiful raga- 
muffin f ' and hence he never gave quarter to a harque- 
bussier. Not the least noticeable of his excellences 
was his entire freedom from selfishness. He never 
dispraised a .rival nor ever praised himself; and while 
all others were eager after ttie spoil he never sought for 
any, replying to those who blamed him for not enrich- 
ing himself, " Gentlemen, I do my duty ; God hath 
not sent me into the world to live upon plunder and 
rapine." But " of worldly pelf he took no thought at 
all, as he clearly proved, being at his death little richer 
than at his birth hour." When asked " What goods 
ought the noble man to leave to his children ?" — his 
answer was, "Those which fear neither rain nor storm, 
nor the power of man, nor human justice — wisdom 
and virtue." His whole life is a proof that he took upon 
himself the calling of a knight with no ignoble or 
selfish aim. He embraced it in truth and honour, and 
truly and honourably cherished it To us such a vo- 
cation seems not the noblest, but it was otherwise 



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thought in his time ; and his whole life was an earnest 
hopeiul endeavour to live up to its highest require- 
ments. A true man deserves honour and acknowledg- 
ment when he is recognised, whatever be his calling, 
whatever his purpose ; and a truer man than Bayard 
can hardly be found. 



CULTIVATION OF THE NUTMEG IN BRITISH 
COLONIES. 

There have been within the last few years some in- 
teresting details published respecting the growth 
of spices in some or other of the British colonies. 
Scarcely any of those commodities which constitute 
spice are brought from our own territories ; and, in 
order to ascertain whether the difficulties attending 
their introduction might not be overcome, the Society 
of Arts has from time to time offered premiums. One 
of its premiums was to this effect: — "To the person 
who shall grow the finest sample of nutmegs, of good 
and merchantable quality, not less than twenty pounds 
weight, in any part of her Majesty's dominions, in the 
West Indies, or in any British plantation on the coast 
of Africa, or of the several islands adjacent thereto, 
or in the island of Singapore, equal to those imported 
from the islands of the East Indies ; — the gold medal." 
In reply to this offer Dr. Montgomerie, of Singapore, 
sent to the Society, in 1842, a packet of about thirty 
pounds of nutmegs and six pounds of mace, grown by 
nim in that island. He received the Society's gold 
medal, and communicated an interesting account of 
the measures taken to introduce the cultivation of 
these spices into the extreme corner of British Asia, 
where Singapore is situated. 

Dr. Montgomerie states, that so long back as 1821 
some young nutmeg and clove plants were carried by 
Sir Stamford Raffles from Bencoolen to Singapore, 
and placed under the charge of Mr. John Dunn, a 
gentleman who had some experience in the cultivation 
of spices at Bencoolen ; and who had also some men 
placed under him who were accustomed to the work. 
A plantation was formed on the eastern slope of a hill, 
where there was a deep soil of ferruginous clay and 
sand. Both nutmeg and clove plants throve very well, 
and commenced to bear in 1825. From this time the 
plantation was placed under the charge of different 
persons, and several small plantations were commenced 
by private persons in other situations near the town ; 
the seed having been procured from Penang. 

Dr. Montgomerie left Singapore in 1827, and on 
it turning to it in 1835, he found that neglect and 
blight had destroyed most of the clove-plants ; but the 
nutmeg- trees had presented so favourable an appear- 
ance that he was induced to commence a plantation on 
a piece of ground belonging to himself. The ground 
consisted of a low round hill with a little level land at 
its base ; the hill being sixty or seventy feet high, and 
the whole about fifteen acres in extent, sheltered from 
the east wind by higher hills ; the soil on the hill was a 
sandy clay, and on the level base principally blue clay. 
A supply of nuts was procured from Penang, the nuts 
being packed carefully in a box, with layers of earth 
alternately between each two layers of nuts. 

A bed for a nursery was prepared with burnt earth 
tnd buffalo-dung manure, on the red soil of the plan- 
tation, and shaded overhead ; the seeds or nuts being 
planted about a foot apart. When they were about 
i year and a half old the young plants were carefully 
separated and dug up, each one surrounded at the 
root with a ball of earth about a foot in diameter. They 
were planted in places prepared for their reception, in 
boles which had been dug about two feet wide by one 
and a half deep ; a little soil, prepared with burnt 



earth and buffalo-dung, was thrown into each hole, the 
plant was introduced, and the hole was filled with the 
same kind of soil pressed firmly round the plant. The 
plant was then shaded from the sun by placing four 
posts, two on each side, about four feet from the plant, 
with the tops inclined inwards ; and on the tops of 
these awnings were spread. The awning was made 
of the same material as that employed by the Malays 
in thatching their huts, being made of the leaves of the 
neessak folded and tied on laths of the Nebong palm. 
The trees required to be shaded for three or four years, 
and provision was made for shifting the awnings 
higher and higher, to suit the growth of the plants. 
About eighteen months or two years after the ground 
was planted, additional plants were placed between the 
former ones, one for each. 

In 1838 and 1839 a few trees that were first planted 
began to show blossoms ; and in the following year 
certain transplantations and re-arrangements were 
made, to strengthen and improve the whole plantation. 
Every year a trench about a foot wide by fifteen inches 
deep was dug round each tree, at about where the 
roots terminated, — the drop from the extremity of the 
branches bein^ taken as the guide, going a little wide 
at first, and digging nearer until the tips of the roots 
were exposed. The earth from the trench was thrown 
on the down-hill side of the tree, so as to increase the 
level, and the trench was filled up with surface soil 
mixed with burnt earth and manure. 

Dr. Montgomerie purchased in 1839 another planta- 
tion, bordering on his former one, and of about equal 
size ; it contained about thirty good trees and five or 
six inferior ones, about twelve years old, which were 
in very good bearing ; the rest of the ground had been 
also recently planted out ; and there was also a nursery 
of young plants, which served to replace inferior ones 
in both plantations. From the thirty-five trees of the 
new plantation there were obtained, between June 
1839 and June 1840, about eighteen thousand nutmegs, 
varying from six hundred to twenty-four hundred in 
eacn month, according to the weather. The average, 
take the good and bad together, was about five hundred 
nutmegs from each tree. 

The nuts (for the nutmegs constitute the nuts of the 
tree) burst when ripe They are then plucked by 
means of a sharp hook fixed on the end of a long bam- 
boo. There are many persons, perhaps, who use spice 
to whom the fact is not known that mace and nutmeg 
are parts of the same fruit, mace being the shell of the 
nut whose kernel constitutes nutmeg. The fruit as it 
hangs on the tree has an externa] envelope of a soft 
pulpy substance, then the shell or mace, and then the 
Kernel or nutmeg. In the Spice Islands, whence this 
produce is chiefly obtained, the people who collect the 
nutmeg-fruit, cut it open, and throw away the pulpy 
substance or external coat. The mace beneath is a 
thick membrane rather than a shell, and is carefully 
taken off and dried. 

But to proceed with the Singapore system. The 
mace was removed with a small circular gouge, and 
dried in the sun for a day ; but before it got quite 
hard, it was laid between planks covered with linen 
cloth, and pressed flat under a wooden screw, so as to 
keep it in shape, and prevent it from getting broken 
in packing. It was afterwards thoroughly dried in 
the sun. The nutmegs themselves were dried in the 
sun until they shook in their shells, a period of about 
six or eight days ; and they were then put into a 
basket and hung in the smoke of a wooden fire for a 
month or two. When about to be shipped off, the 
nuts were cracked, and assorted in three parcels ; the 
first quality consisting of the large, plump, and heavy 
nuts; the second, of the small heavy ones; and the 
third, of the shrivelled light nuts. 



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The cultivator of these interesting plantations states 
that there are about three hundred and fifty or four 
hundred acres of ground planted with nutmeg on the 
island of Singapore, one half of which will be in good 
bearing in 1845, and the whole in full bearing in 1850, 
and may be expected to produce between six and seven 
hundred cwts. of nutmegs annually. 

Dr. Montgomerie mentions certain points connected 
with the tenure of land in that island, which would 
prevent the nutmeg cultivation from reaching that 
point of profit and excellence to which it might other- 
wise attain. " The forest-land, except a few original 
grants of small extent, is now only given on leases of 
twenty years, renewable at the end of that period for 
thirty years more. These would doubtless be very 
favourable terms for a farmer in England to enter 
upon an improveable farm, if on the condition of com- 
pensation being made to the farmer, at the end of bis 
lease, for all permanent improvements made by him, 
and for standing crops, &c. But how different ia the case 
here ! The whole island in 1820 was covered with a 
dense forest of large trees, and impervious to man 
without the aid of a hatchet ; it was literally impossible 
to penetrate without cutting the thorns and smaller 
shrubs growing around the lofty trees, which also 
covered the ground to the extent of several hundred 
trees per acre. The operation of felling, burning, and 
clearing the ground for cultivation in a moist climate 
is most troublesome, slow, and expensive ; the constant 
rain prevents the timber from drying until a second 
undergrowth starts up, fresh and green, so that it has 
to be cut again and again ; and the removal of the 
enormous roots of bard and old timber is a work of 
great labour. These preliminary operations are so 
laborious and expensive that even if the ground were 
granted in perpetuity, it would be dearly bought ; but 
when there is a quit-rent, small certainly at first, but 
to be levied before the ground begins to produce as 
much as will cover the annual outlay, it falls hard ; 
and when the broken ground, at the end of fifty years, 
reverts, with all its improvements, houses, fences, 
bridges, fruit-trees, and valuable timber that may have 
been planted by the tenant, and without any stipula- 
tion for remuneration for permanent improvements by 
him, the terms are so absurdly severe tnat it requires 
explanation why people could ever have been induced 
to cultivate." 

These observations, and others of a similar kind, 
evidently relate to the prospect of profit which a cul- 
tivator would have under the existing arrangements 
at Singapore in respect to the renting of land, and not 
to the capability of the district for growing nutmegs. 
The samples sent to England were submitted to a 
spice-broker, and were found to be of very good 
quality. 

A few years before, the Society of Arts had given a 
similar prize, t. e. a gold medal, to Mr. Lockhart of 
Trinidad, for producing nutmegs of a very fair quality 
in that island. Two plants were first brought to Trini- 
dad from Cayenne in the early part of the present cen- 
tury; but many years elapsed before any favourable 
results were obtained, for the tree is one requiring 
much care and attention. 



Apprtnluxtkip.—ln most professions of the more liberal kind 
there is in England no contract of apprenticeship ; the pupil or 
learner pays a fee, and has the opportunity of learning his 
teacher's art or profession if he pleases. Thus a man who intends 
to be called to the bar pays a fee to a special pleader, a convey- 
ancer, or an equity draftsman, and bas the liberty of attending 
at the chambers of his teacher and learning what he can by 
seeing the routine of business and assisting in it But he may 
ueglect his studies, if he pleases, and this will neither concern 



his master, who can very well dispense with the assistance of an 
ignorant pupil, and gets the money without giving anything for 
it, nor the public. For though the barrister is admitted by the 
inns of court without any examination, and may be utterly igno- 
rant of his profession, no mischief ensues to the public, because 
the rules of the profession do not permit him to undertake busi- 
ness without the intervention of an attorney or solicitor, and no 
one would employ him without such intervention. But the 
attorney or solicitor is required by act of parliament to serve a 
five years' apprenticeship, the reasons for which are much 
diminished since the institution of an examination by the Incor- 
porated Law Society in Chancery Lane, London, before he can 
be admitted to practise. Indeed a part of the time which is now 
spent in an attorney's office would be much better spent at a 
good school, and would perhaps cost the parent or guardian as 
little. There is frequently a fee paid with an apprentice to an 
attorney or solicitor, and there is a stamp duty of 120/. on his 
indentures; so that it is probable that the raising of revenue was 
one object in legislating on this matter. Persons who practise 
as physicians serve uo apprenticeship, but they are subjected to 
examinations; all persons who practise as apothecaries must 
serve a five years 1 apprenticeship The reasons for this appren- 
ticeship also are much diminished by the institution of examina- 
tions, at which persons are rejected who have not the necessary 
knowledge, though they have served the regular period of 
apprenticeship. If the examination of the attorney and apothe- 
cary is sufficiently strict, that is a better guarantee for their 
professional competence than the mere fact of having served an 
apprenticeship. Vet the apprenticeship is some guarantee for 
the character of the apothecary and solicitor, which the ex- 
amination alone cannot be, for a youth who has much miscon- 
ducted himself during his apprenticeship cannot receive the 
testimonial of his master for good conduct, and be is liable to 
have his indentures cancelled. The attorney and apothecary 
belong to two classes whose services are constantly required by 
the public, who have little or no means of judging of their pro- 
fessional ability. A man can tell if his shoemaker or tailor 
uses him well, but his health may be ruined by his apothecary, 
or his affairs damaged by his attorney, without bis knowing 
where the fault lies. There is no objection, therefore, to requiring 
apprenticeship or any other condition from an attorney or apothe- 
cary which shall be a guarantee for bis professional competence, 
but nothing more should be required than is necessary, and it is 
generally agreed that an apprenticeship of five years is not neces- 
sary. If, however, the law were altered in this respect, it i$ very 
possible that the practice of five years* apprenticeship might still 
continue ; and there would be no good reason for the law inter- 
fering if the parties were willing to make such a contract. In 
all those arts, crafts, trades, and mysteries which a boy is sent to 
learn at an early age, a relation analogous to that of master and 
servant, and parent and child, is necessary both for the security 
of the master and the benefit of the boy. Adam Smith speaks 
of apprenticeship as if the only question was the length of time 
necessary to learn the art or mystery in. If parents can keep 
their children at home or at school until they approach man s 
estate, the control created by the contract of apprenticeship is 
less necessary, and the term for serving a master need not be 
longer than is requisite for the learning of the art. Still, if the 
contract is left free by the law, it will depend ou many circum- 
stances, whether the master will be content with such a period ; 
be may require either more money with the apprentice and leas 
of his service, or less of his money and more of his service. This 
is a matter that no legislator can usefully interfere with. But 
when boys leave home at an early age, and are sent to learn an 
art, it is necessary that they should be subjected to control, and 
for a considerable period. They must learn to be attentive to 
their business, methodical, and well-behaved; and if their 
masters set them a good example, the moral discipline of a 
boy's apprenticeship is useful. If the master does not set a good 
example, the effect will be that be will not be so likely to nave 
apprentices ; for an apprenticeship partakes of the nature of a 
school education) an education in an art or mystery, and a pre- 
paration for the world ; and a master who can best prepare 
youths in this threefold way is most likely to have the offer 
of apprentices. — Knighf* Booh of Referent* — The Pohticai 
Dictionary. 



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THE YEAR OF THE POETS. 

No. III. — Spring Flowers. 
It has been objected to Milton 
that in his ' Lycidas' he enumerates 
among "vernal flowers" many of 
those which are the offspring of 
Midsummer, and of a still more 
advanced season. The passage to 
which the objection applies is the 
following: — 

" Ye Tallies low, where the mild whis- 
pers rise 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and 

gushing brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart star 

sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint ena- 

mel'd eyes, 
That on the green turf suck the honied 

showers, 
And purple all the g 

nal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primr< 

dies, 
The tufted crow-toe i 

mine, 
The white pink, and th 

with jet, 
The glowing violet, 
The musk-rose, and 

woodbine, 
With cowslips wan tha 

sire head, 
And every flower that i 

wears : 
Bid aramantus all his 
And daffodillies fill tl 

tears, 
To strow the laureat h 

Lycid lies." 

A little consideri 

show that Milton co 

guish between the f 

Spring and the f 

Summer. The 

lian Muse" is tc 

the vales, and bii 

hither cast theii 

andflowretsofa 

sand hues." 




'^ 



were not only to be cast the u quaint enamelPd eyes" of 
•* vernal flowers," but " every flower that sad embroidery 
wears ;** or, in the still clearer language of the original 
manuscript of the poem, "every bud that sorrow's 
livery wears." The •• vernal flowers" were to indicate 
the youth of Lycidas ; the flowers of M sorrow's livery" 
were emblems of his untimely death. The intention 
of Milton is distinctly to be traced in his first con- 

no. 825. 



"V,,, 



ception of the passage. After the "rathe [early] 
primrose," we have, 

" And that tad flower that strove 
To write his own woes on the vermeil grain." 

This is the hyacinth, the same as " the tufted crow- 
toe." He proceeds with more of sorrow's livery— 

" Next add Narcissus, that still weeps in vain." 
Vol. XIV.— H 



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Then come " the woodbine," and " the pansy freak'd 
with jet.'* In the original passage " the musk-rose'' 
is not found at all. Milton's strewments for the bier 
of Lycidas, we hold, are not confined to vernal flowers, 
and therefore it is unnecessary to elevate Shakspere 
at the expense of Milton: "While Milton and the 
other poets had strung together in their descriptions 
the blossoms of Spring and the flowers of Summer, 
Shakspere has placed in one group those only which 
may be found in bloom at the same time."* The 
writer alludes to the celebrated passage in the • Win- 
ter's Tale,' where Perdita, at the summer sheep-shear- 
ing, bestows the "flowers of middle summer" upon 
her guests "of middle age," and wishes for "some 
flowers o' the spring" that might become the " time 
of day" of her fairest virgin friends : 

" O, Proserpina, 
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall 
From Dis*s waggon! daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Pbcebus in his strength, a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlipe, and 
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one ! O ! these I lack 
To make you garlands of." 

T'his is indeed poetry founded upon the most accu- 
rate observation — the perfect combination of elegance 
and truth. 

The exquisite simplicity of Chaucer's account of his 
love for the daisy may well follow Shakspere's spring- 
garland. Rarely could he move from his books ; no 
game could attract him ; but when the flowers begin 
to spring, 

" Farewell my book and my devotion." 

Above all the flowers in the mead he loved most 

" these flow*r6s white and red, 
Such that men callen Daisies in our town ; 
To them have I so great affection, 
As I said erst, when comeu is the May, 
That in ray bed there daweth me no day 
That I u'am up and walking in the mead 
To see this flow'r against the sunne spread, 
When it upriseth early by the morrow ; 
'J hat blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow ; 
So glad am I when that I have presence 
Of it, to doen it all reverence," 

Chaucer welcomes the " eye of the day" when " the 
month of May is comen." Another true poet, Burns, 
has immortalized that solitary mountain daisy that he 
turned down with his plough on a cold April morning : 

" Wee, modest, crimson-ripped flowV, 
Thou*s met me in an evd hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem. 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonic gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neboor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Beuding thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi* spreckl'd breast, 
When upward springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Giuld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

* Patterson on the Insects mentioned by Sltakspcre. 



The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa'i maun shield, 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble- field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
ThtfU lifts thy unassuming head 

Ju humble guise ; 
Rut now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray *d 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Uuskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine— no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till, crush'd beneath the furrows weight, 

Shall be thy doom !" 

This is a beautiful specimen of that poetical power 
which sees analogies in the natural and moral world, 
such as present themselves to every imaginative mind, 
but which few have the ability to translate into the 
language which all feel and understand. 

Robert Herrick is, in his quaint way, a master of 
this art : — 

" Fair Dafladils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early risiug sun 
Has not attained his noon. 

Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
A nd, having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or any thing. 

We die 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning*s dew, 
Ne'er to be found again.'* 

Hebrick. 



Flowers and love are naturally associated, 
thus sings of the violet :— 



Raleigh 



" Sweet violets. Love's paradise, that spread 

Your gracious odours, which you couched beai 

Within your palie faces, 
Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind, 

That plays amidst the plain, 
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain 
Such grace as in my ladie's bosom place to find, 

Be proud to touch those places ! 
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear, 

Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, 



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Your honours of the flowrie meads I pray. 
You pretty daughters of the earth and sua, 

With mild and sweetly breathing straight display 
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone !" 

Drayton has a love simile for the small flower 
bursting its * 4 frosty prison :" — 

" All as the hungry winter-starved earth, 
Where she by nature labours towards he* birth, 
Still as the day upon the dark world creeps, 
One blo*som forth after another peeps, 
Till the small flower, whose root is now unbound, 
Gets from tlie frosty prison of the ground, 
Spreading the leaves uuto the powerful noon, 
Deck'd in fresh colours, smiles upon the sun. 
Never unquiet care lodge in that breast 
Where but one thought of Rosamond did rest.'' 

But there are loftier feelings associated with flowers. 
Love, in some poetical minds, rises into devotion to 
the Great Source of all heauty and joy. Never were 
Spring-flowers the parents of holier thoughts than are 
found in this poem of Herbert : — 

" How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
Are thy returns ! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring ; 

To which, besides their own demean, 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 

Grief melts away like snow in May ; 
As if there were uo such cold thing. 

Who would hsve thought my shrivel'd heart 
Could have recover'd greenness ? It was gone 

Quite under ground, as flow'rs depart 
To see their mother-root, when they have blown ; 

Where they, together, all the hard weather, 
Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 

These are thy wonders, Lord of power ! 
Killing, and uuick'ning, bringing down to hell, 

And up to heaven, in an hour ; 
Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 

We say amiss, « This, or that, is ;» 
Thy word is all ; if we could spell. 

Oh, that I once past changing were ; 
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither! 

Many a spring I shoot up fair, 
Offring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither : 

Nor doth my flower want a spring show'r ; 
My sins and 1 joining together. 

But, while I grow in a straight line 
Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, 

Thy anger comes, aud I decline. 
What frost to that f What pole is not the tone 

Where all things burn, when thou dost turn, 
And the least frown of thine is shown f 

And now in age I bud again : 
After so many deaths 1 live and write : 

I once more smell the dew and rain ; 
And relish versing. O my onely light, 

It cannot be that I am he, 
Ou whom thy tempests fell all night ! 

These are thy wonders, Lord of love! 
To make us see that we are but flow'rs that glide. 

Which when we once can And and prove, 
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide ; 

Who would be more, swelling through store 
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride." 

HERBKaT. 

By the side of our old poet of the English Church 
may we worthily place the devotional poem on Flowers 
of a Transatlantic hard, whom we have quoted iu our 
List paper, Longfellow : 

"Spake full well, in language quaint and olden. 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stan, that in earth's firmament do shine. 



Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not so wrapped about with aweful mystery, 

Like the burning stars which they beheld. 

Wonderous truths, and manifold as wonderous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation 

Written all over this great world of onrs ; 

Making evident our own creatiou, 
In these stars of earth— these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 
Of the self-same, universal Iwiiig, 

Which is throbbing iu his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining ; 

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 

Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 

Flaunting gaily in the golden light ; 
Large desires, with most uncertain tissues, 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than seemiug ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
Which the Poet, in uo idle dreaming, 

Seeth iu himself, and iu the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is bom : 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring s armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green -emblazoned Held, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn s wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield : 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain- top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But on old Cathedrals, high and hoary 
Ou the tomb of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 
In ancestral houses, whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tells us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with child-like, credulous affection 

We behold their tender buds expand ; 
Emblems of our own great resurrection, 

Emblems of the bright and better land.'* 

Go then into the fields when the snow melts and the 
earth is unbound. Pry into the hedges for the first 
Primrose ; see if there be a Daisy nestling in the short 
grass; look for the little Celandine that Wordsworth 
has glorified :— 

" Ere a leaf is on the bush, 
In the time before the Thrush 
Has a thought about its nest, 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like t careless Prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we *ve little warmth, or none." 



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BALLO DEGU ORSI, OR BEAR-DANCING, 
AT ROME. 

With a few melancholy exceptions, limited almost en- 
tirely, we believe, to what are technically called 
Caravan bears, or Show or Fair bears— all our mem- 
bers of the ursine family are now confined to our vari- 
ous zoological gardens. Bores he may yet meet in 
abundance : but a man may now walk every day in the 
year from Whitechapel Church to Charing Cross, and 
back from the Cross to the Church, without the remot- 
est chance of meeting with a bear, either walking or 
dancing. We are men of the last century, and belong 
not to New but to Old England (and to us it must be 
Old England or no England at all) ; and we can well 
remember the time when dancing bears were a com- 
mon sight in the streets of London, and when they 
shared the popularity and glory of our more than Baby- 
lon, in about an equal degree with Punch — whom a 
utilitarian and timid age, and a heartless legislature, 
have in vain endeavoured to put down, as a nuisance 
that caused stoppages, and frightened horses, and made 
tumble out of tneir saddles bad riders, who never ought 
to have been in them. 

The bears that danced in London in the time of our 
childhood (the happiness and excitement of which 
happy season owed whole elements to the exhibition) 
were discreet, well-tutored, well-mannered bears ; and 
their leaders were of that gentle and gentlemanly kind 
that one of the guests of Tony Lumkin, Esq., at the 
Three Jolly Pigeons, had in his mind's eye when he 
said--" What though a man does lead dancing bears 
about the country, that's no reason why he shouldn't be 
a .gentleman." They were mostly black-eyed, black- 
haired, picturesque Italians, from the ridges of the 
Apennines, or gentle Savoyards from the declivities of 
the Alps. They made their bears dance to pleasant 
and pastoral music— to the pipe and tabor; and it 
seems to us that we have never heard, in England, the 
true legitimate tabor since the days when we saw a 
hugeous brown bear dancing to it in the City Road. 
In Italy, at a much more recent period, we have heard 
the sounds produced by that happy combination of 
stick and sheep-skin ; but even there it was in con- 
junction with an interesting member of the hirsute 
bear family, who was cutting capers in the Campo 
Vaccino, or Forum of ancient Rome, which — so fleets 
the glory of the world 1 — is now little else than a cattle- 



market. In our mind the pipe and tabor and the bear 
are inseparably connected: we can never figure the 
image of the quadruped without seeing and hearing 
the two most antique and primitive instruments to 
which his fore-bears lifted their hind legs, when 
George the Third was king regnant of these realms. 
Why are the sounds of pipe and tabor heard no more ? 
Were we to chance to hear them of a sudden in some 
great thoroughfare, we should certainly turn round into 
some side street (one of those streets which Punch 
takes possession of to make people happy without 
dread of the police or an indictment for nuisance) in 
the entire expectation of seeing a bear dance. To us 
those dancing bears were, and lor that matter still are, 
full of fun and of terror, of laughter and of awe. It 
was an exhibition wherein the sublime and ridiculous 
were not separated by even the single step, but where 
they met hand-in-hand and reigned conjointly; and 
absolute was the dominion of either in turns— each 
reign being a tyranny whilst it lasted. The monster 
frisked and gambolled in the most grotesque manner, 
the leader occasionally touching him in his nether or 
more fleshy parts with a little goad. We hope the 
point of the goad was not too sharp. We think it was 
not and never could have been, for those bear-leaders 
were so gentle and so funny themselves. And how 
could they have been otherwise leading a life of pipe 
and tabor and dance? And when the slender goad 
touched the bear, and the pipe played out more shrilly, 
and the rat-tat-tat of the tabor went quicker, how did 
the heavy gentleman in the rough brown coat, with a 
rope to his snout, lump and caper round the little circle 
of which the leader and chief was the centre and the 
happy laughing spectators the edges ! Was there ever 
anything so cumbersome as the bear's lightness or so 
solemn as his frisks ? The obese German that went to 
Paris late in life for a French education, and that 
danced on a drawing-room table— pcmr se faire vjf(io 
make himself lively) was but a type of this dancing 
bear. There was or is no equivalent foi him except 
the dull matter-of-fact man that tried or tries to be 
witty, or the punster that puns with a solemn immova- 
ble face. And then for the terrible, that highest part 
of the sublime. When the bear had done dancing he 
stalked round the circle — being still on his hind legs — 
with a little tin dish in his mouth, to collect the contri- 
butions of the spectators ; and he would come close up 
to you, breathing and puffing in your face, and when 



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halfpennies or pennies rattled into the dish he would 
growl a complacent growl, and would make a most dis- 
mal and terrific noise, expressive of his disappoint- 
ment when the coin fell short or was slow in coming. 
At the time we speak of, as heing part and parcel of 
our own experience, bruin's fore-paws reached much 
higher than our head ; and in our eyes his proportions 
were altogether monstrous and gigantic. Doctor 
Buckland may bury his fossil hones : his monsters of 
flood and field are pigmies to us now, to what the bear 
was then. And then the true nursery stories we knew 
about bears and their doings, and their never-to-be- 
satisfied voracity ! How many mariners did we know 
of, that had been eaten on the lonely shore by brown 
bears, or on icebergs or in whaling-boats by white 
bears ? As for the dark old man with a long tail and a 
wide bag that came to carry off naughty children, 
we had ceased to believe in him, for we had never seen 
him with our waking eyes, or heard him with our 
waking ears ; but the bear we had seen many a time 
and often ; we had even touched his rough coat to- 
wards that part which is farthest from the mouth, and 
when his mouth was in another direction and his head 
held tightly up by that most fearless and wondrous of 
men, the bear-ward or leader ; and as for his voice, had we 
not heard the bear growl, and roar, and grunt, and yell ? 
Many a time have we wakened from our sleep, when a 
foot perchance had got beyond the warm, protecting 
bed-clothes, and fancied that the cold nose of a hungry 
bear was close to us. These were visionary terrors, 
but they came from what we had seen and heard when 
awake. In this philosophic age no child feels such a 
night dread of an ichthyosaurus : he has never seen the 
monster in the flesh, and (which is very comforting), 
never will see it. The dancing bear was muzzled, 
and was held by a strong rope; but the ponderous 
strength of the muzzle spoke of the terrible strength 
that was in the bear's jaws and of the necessity of 
putting an iron stopper upon his appetite and man- 
eating propensities. Terrible, in short, was the dancing 
bear of our childish days ; terrible was he and funny, 
and the more terrible from being so droll. Let meta- 
physicians say what they will, children have a strong 
sense of the force of contrast, and let those who doubt 
it see them take sugar first and senna afterwards, and 
then sugar after that. Generally, but not always, the 
dancing bear was accompanied by a monkey or a 
dancing dog, or a leash of monkeys. [We believe that 
the legitimate bear drama was a monologue, and severely 
repudiated the adjunct of dogs and monkeys.] We 
confess we loved to see the monkey with the bear ; the 
light roguery of the one showed off so well by the side 
of the heavy pranks of the other— the force of contrast 
could no further go. At times the monkey would 
dance a pas seul on the shoulders of the bear ; at other 
times he would with many antics and grimaces hunt 
the bears head for that little creature which has been 
too exclusively described as being familiar to man. At 
other seasons the bear would stretch himself at his 
full length upon the ground, and shut his eyes as if he 
were fast asleep, or even stone dead ; and thereupon 
jacko would dance upon his body from snout to tail, 
playing all manner of tricks and taking all sorts of 
liberties with the great monster, indeed to the opening 
of his heavy eyelids with his impertinent little fingers. 
To this last trick the monkey tribe in their intercourse 
with the bear family are said to be particularly ad- 
dicted. We mention the fact as suggestive of reflection 
and experiment to zoologists, idealogists, and other 
philosophers. Our own dear and ingenious and very 
learned friend, the late W. S. R., Esq., who was bow- 
bearer to the sovereign for the New Forest, and as 
such was sworn to be of good and kindly behaviour to 
all her majesty's wild beasts, who relieved his more 



serious studies and high official duties with investi- 
gating the characters and habits of various four-footed 
and four-handed animals, and whose conversation, 
never 

" tuned to one key, 
Ran on cbace, race, bone, mare, fair, bear, and monkey,"* 

related a very striking anecdote to illustrate the habits 
of a bruin and the spirit of philosophical inquiry that 
was in a certain jacko. This bear and monkey were 
fellow-passengers on board of shin, or rather they 
were kept voyage after voyage on fcoard of a man-of- 
war to amuse the sailors when they were home-sick or 
otherwise out of spirits. Being of the sluggish nature 
of his race, the bear would lie for whole hours together 
upon deck, sleeping or dozing in the shadow of the 
bulwark nearest the sun ; and as he slept or dozed he 
would frequently pass his paw over his closed eyes, or 
twitch it up or down his rough face. This was care- 
fully observed by the monkey, whose post, for the 
most part, was in the shrouds or up in the tops 
(whither he was often driven by the sailors for some 
mischievous prank or other, or by the younger mid- 
shipmen, who are apt to be rather more mischievous 
than monkeys), whence he had a fine bird's-eye view 
of all that was doing upon deck. One day jacko was 
seen to descend from the tops, creep quietly up to the 
bear, and open one of his eyes, into which he peeped 
with a very inquisitive and knowing look. As there 
was a standing feud between the two, or as the mon- 
key's chief occupation consisted of teasing the bear, 
the thing at first attracted no extraordinary degree of 
attention. But when it Was seen day after day that 
jacko did the same thing, and was much excited when- 
ever the bear passed his paw over his dreamy eyes, or 
was uneasy in nis sleep, the captain and the surgeon 
began to consider of it, and, being by birth Scotchmen 
and consequently metaphysicians, they soon came to 
the conclusion that the monkey lifted up the bear's 
eyelids and peeped into his eyes — to see what he was 
dreaming about, t 

For all that we know to the contrary, dancing bears 
may have become as rare a sight in the streets of 
Rome as they are in the streets of London. But when 
we first knew the Eternal City (we speak of rather 
more than a quarter of a century ago), it was not so. 
One or two daucing bears were then to be seen every 
common working-day of the week, and more on Sun- 
days and Saints' days, and other high festivals. Punch 
too at that time flourished amazingly in the city of 
the Caesars. You could not walk from the Piazza di 
Spagna to St. Peter's, or the Vatican, or the Coliseum, 
or the Capitol, without hearing his shrill crowing 
voice. This made a considerate friend and countryman 
of ours say to another traveller who was complaining 
of the dearth of amusements, or lamenting that after 
one had seen the ancient buildings and churches and 
the galleries of pictures and statues, Rome was rather 
a dull place— My dear fellow, have we not dancing 
bears ? Have we not Punch ? Then how can you be 
dull here? 

The leaders or bear- wards that we were acquainted 
with at Rome and in other aucient and venerable cities 
of Italy came chiefly from the most mountainous 
regions of the Duchy of Parma. In an early part of 
the * Penny Magazine* we have given some account of 
this country aud of its primitive and wandering inha- 
bitants. J In the same paper we have also described 

* Epistle from W. 8. R., at Brighton, to tbe Right Honourable 
John Hook ham Freiv, in Malta. 

f For tome variation! to this good story we beg to refer our 
reader to ' Apology addressed to the Travellers' Club,' or 
' Anecdotes of Monkeys,' a little book which will much amuse 
him if he ean only find a copy of it. 

X Penny Mag. Vol. ii. 1st Series. 



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[Fkbruary 8, 



the Proveditori, or the men of capital who provide the 
monkeys, bears, or other animals for their poorer and 
perambulating countrymen, as well as the curious co- 
operation of capital or labour which is, or was, not 
uncommon amongst these mountaineers and showmen. 
We have there shown that four of these poor fellows 
would buy one bear among them, and hold the pro- 
perty on the tenure of what they called "a paw 
a- piece' (una zampa per uno) : and how two of them, 
leading the bear from country to country, and showing 
it together, would divide the profits equally, and then 
save or remit given proportions of the profits to the 
1 wo co-proprietors who had stayed quietly at home, and 
who had contributed capital, but no labour. We have 
also given to fame the name and character of Rossi of 
Com piano, one of the greatest speculators in the bear 
and monkey line, who, after wandering through the 
world on foot, acquired much money, became a consi- 
derable landed proprietor in his native Apennines, and 
imported his wild animals direct from Africa. When 
we wrote that notice — twelve years ago — the great 
Rossi of Com piano was flourishing in his affluence, 
and we believe that he is still living, though he has 
long ceased to attend his beasts, or (in the phraseology 
of bis countrymen) to go about the world with the 
comedy."* 

[To be continued.] 



MUSCARDINE, 

A REMARKABLE DISEASE IN SILKWORMS. 

It is well known that in many parts of the south of 
France, and in the north of Italy, the silkworm is 
extensively reared, and constitutes one of the chief 
sources of industry and prosperity to the people. The 
mode of treatment is briefly this : — When the eggs are 
beginning to be hatched, sheets of paper, pierced with 
small holes, are laid upon them, and through these 
holes the worms creep, thus extricating themselves the 
more easily from the eggs, and arriving at a supply of 
mulberry leaves, which are placed above. They are 
then transferred to hurdles formed of reeds, which are 
arranged one above the other, in the manner of shelves : 
but in order to economise space, these shelves are often 
placed bo close together as to induce disease among 
the silkworms. The insects pass the whole period of 
their larva state on these shelves, undergoing the 
changes of the skin, four in number, which, with the 
torpor that precedes, and the increased appetite which 
follows each change, are well known to all who have 
kept these insects. 

The larva stale of the silkworm lasts about thirty- 
four days. At the end of this time the French peasants 
{)repare small twigs of heath and other plants, and 
lang them over the shelves. The worms cease to eat, 
and raise themselves up in search of a place in which 
to spin their cocoon. They readily attach themselves 
to the plants, and in four days have completely en- 
closed themselves in their respective balls of silk. 
With the management of these cocoons we have no 
present concern ; our object being to exhibit the 
sources of disease arising out of improper treatment. 

Silkworms are subject to many diseases, which are 
for the most part produced by that ignorance of 
the conditions necessary to the preservation of health 
(whether in human beings or in silkworms) which 
prevails to so lamentable an extent in the abodes of 
poverty in all countries. Count Dandolo states that, 

* These simple people of the Apennines give the elevated 
name of comedy to the gambols of monkey • and the dancing of 
bears. It is almost the only comedy they know, fur even Punch 
and his wife ate strangers in these very wild and very poor 
regions. 



for the most part, the rooms appropriated to rearing 
silkworms among the tenants, farmers, and common 
cultivators of France and Italy have very much the 
appearance of catacombs. " I have found," he sayg, 
" on entering the rooms in which these insects were 
reared, that they were damp, ill-lighted by lamps fed 
with rancid oil, the air corrupt and stagnant to a de- 
gree that impeded respiration ; the disagreeable efflu- 
via attempted to be disguised by aromatics ; the wickers 
too close together, and covered with fermenting litter, 
upon which the silkworms were pining. The air was 
never renewed except by the breaches which lime had 
made in the doors and windows : and what made this 
the more deplorable was the knowledge of the effect 
produced on the persons who attended to these insects. 
However healthy they might have been when they 
entered on the employment, they soon experienced a 
melancholy change : their voices became hollow ; their 
complexions pallid ; their health was in fact destroyed, 
so that they appeared as if issuing from the tomb, or 
recovering from some dreadful illness/' 

In addition to the general weak and sickly state of 
the worms consequent on the absence of fresh air and 
the natural light of day, two active diseases are engen- 
dered : the one called the jaundice, in consequence of 
the yellow colour it produces on its victims ; the other, 
mvscardine, because the body of the dead worm re- 
sembles certain sugar-plums manufactured in Pro- 
vence, and called by that name. In Italy this latter 
disease is known by the names calcino, calcinetto, and 
calcinaccio, all of which refer to the chalky appearance 
of the insect after death. Muscardine is by far the 
more formidable of these diseases, including in its 
ravages, at certain periods, the establishments of the 
careful, as well as of the careless rearers of silkworms, 
and defying for a long time the inquiries of scientific 
men, who sought to ascertain the real nature of this 
remarkable malady. 

There is no record of the period when this disease 
first began to display itself; but it has been for many 
years the scourge of the silkworm districts of Italy 
and the south of France. No sooner did it appear in 
any quarter than it extended its ravages with fearful 
rapidity among the worms of a whole village, and often 
of a whole district; and what was still more unfor- 
tunate, it usually appeared just at the period when the 
worms had consumed the whole stock of mulberry 
leaves, and were preparing to spin their cocoons. The 
evil at length became so manifest as to excite the atten- 
tion of the French government. In the year 1806 a 
commission of inquiry was issued ; and on two or three 
subsequent occasions the Royal Academy of Sciences 
of Paris directed certain naturalists to inquire into the 
circumstances of this malady, and to suggest, if pos- 
sible, a remedy. 

None of these inquiries seem to have led to any very 
important results, chiefly owing to the difficulty of 
ascertaining the real nature of the disease ; when, in 
the year 1835, Dr. Bassi of Lodi announced that Mus- 
cardine was due to the formation of a minute crypto- 
gamous plant, or, popularly speaking, a mouldiness, in 
the interior of the body of the silkworm. This an- 
nouncement was received with extreme surprise : Dr. 
Bassi's statement was scarcely believed. That an ani- 
mal endowed with life and activity (for it is at the 
very time when the worm appears to be most vigorous 
that it is attacked) should furnish nutriment to a ve- 
getable substance ; or that there should be, as it were, 
a conflict between a vegetable and an animal, in which 
the latter should yield to the former, seemed indeed 
past belief. 

Soon after this announcement was made, M. Audouin, 
the celebrated naturalist, and editor of the zoological 
series of the 'Annates des Sciences Nat urelles' (from 



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several of the volumes of which many of the following 
details are derived), conceiving that so extraordinary a 
case of parasitism, as he calls it, merited the notice of 
the naturalist, instituted a series of experiments on the 
subject. His inquiries were commenced on the 21st 
of June, 1836. He obtained a chrysalis which had died 
of mu scar dine, and found the whole surface entirely 
covered with a white floury efflorescence, one of the 
most obvious characters of the malady. lie also pro- 
cured upwards of one hundred worms belonging to a 
very fine variety called 6i«a f which had been hatched 
at Paris on the 28th of the preceding month. The 
first individuals operated upon were consequently 
twenty-four days old ; they had cast their skins three 
times, and were about to change them for the fourth and 
last time. 

It was now to be seen whether healthy worms could 
be inoculated with the disease; and if so, whether 
they were equally liable to infection in the three stages 
of caterpillar, chrysalis, and butterfly. Also, whether 
the vegetable parasite appeared only after the death 
of the insect ; or whether it vegetated within the body 
of the living animal. In the latter case the organic 
changes induced would be matter of interesting in- 
quiry. It was also to be ascertained under what cir- 
cumstances the parasite appeared on the body of the 
worm, and what were the characters of this strange 
vegetation. 

On the 21st of June, at five o'clock, the thermometer 
indicating 79° Fahr., M. Audouin commenced his ex- 
periments on ten silkworms. They were lively and 
vigorous, and about fifteen or sixteen lines long. By 
means of a needle a minute puncture was made in the 
side of each worm, so carefully as not to injure any 
essential organ. A small portion of a limpid yellow 
liquid escaped, and a minute quantity of the white sub- 
stance from the diseased worm was introduced under 
the Bkin of other worms. These worms appeared agi- 
tated during five or six minutes, and then resumed 
their food as if nothing had happened. The next 
morning the wound was indicated only by a small 
black spot. During the day these insects appeared to 
be as lively and well as ten others which had not been 
inoculated, but were placed under precisely the same 
circumstances with respect to temperature, food, &c. 
On the 23rd and 24th of June they all prepared to cast 
their skins, and remained immovable, without taking 
any food. On the 25th they had all cast their skins, 
and on the following day they took their food as usual, 
the inoculated worms being even more voracious than 
the others. 

Thus, during five days after being inoculated, these 
worms exhibited no external change : their skins were 
sleek and white, and their bodies plump; in short 
their general appearance was perfectly healthy. But 
on the 27th, at 5 o'clock a.m., nine of them were struck 
with paralysis; the anterior portion of the body was 
elevated ; they remained immovable, somewhat in the 
attitude which is observed when they prepare to cast 
their skins. Food was offered to them, but nothing 
seemed capable of disturbing them from this state of 
somnolency. On the 28th, at 4 am., they were dead. 
i heir bodies were soft and flattened in certain places : 
the teguments were wholly or partly of a pale violcfc 
red, but this colour appeared deeper and was even of a 
brownish red around the part punctured. On the 29th 
the bodies had a furrowed, or in some cases a twisted 
appearance, and were much diminished in bulk. On 
l »e 30th a light white efflorescence appeared on the 
upper part of the bodies, and generally near the place 
?. ln °culation. At the same time the respiratory ori- 
I e f \ were fiWed with this powder, as it appeared to be. 
in the course of three davs the bodies Mere entirely 
covered with it. * 



The results of this experiment may be thus summed 
up : — six days after the inoculation of ten worms nine 
of them appeared sick ; and seven days after inocula- 
tion they were dead. The one that escaped, together 
with the ten individuals not inoculated, changed into 
nymphs and butterflies, as usual. It was likewise 
found that the inoculation of the nymph and perfect 
insect was followed by death about the fifth day, and it 
appeared probable that even the eggs might be infected 
with the germs of muscardine. In another article will 
be stated the particulars of several remarkable experi- 
ments which determined the nature of this singular 
malady. 

[To be continuod.] 



ON MOUNTAIN ECHOES. 

To those who have not had an opportunity of visiting 
the mountain scenery of our own and the sister island, 
it will probably give a new idea of the sources of de- 
light which such scenes present to describe the en- 
chanting effect of mountain echoes, and the way in 
which such echoes are developed for the nlcasure and 
astonishment of travellers. 

There are many natural sounds, such as the rushing 
of streams and cataracts, the screaming of wild-fowl, 
&c„ which greatly enhance the enjoyment of mountain 
scenery. Some of these sounds are 



—" Inharmonious in themselves and harsli, 



Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns ; 
And only there, please highly for their sake." 

But there are occasionally heard the softer voices of 
echoes reverberating from bill to hill, and adding 
greatly to the pleasing impressions conveyed by the 
scene. 

In situations favourable to the production of echoes 
it is now the common practice to elicit them by means 
of the powerful yet melodious notes of the key-bugle. 
Parties of buglemen accompany travellers through the 
rich and varied scenery of tbe Lakes of Killarney, and 
are particularly happy in awakening the echoes of the 
cliffs and mountains around. 

A description of the effects thus produced cannot 
fail to interest cur readers, and accordingly we select 
one from the report of a judicious and scientific ear- 
witness of the phenomenon, the Rev. W. Scoresby. 

** In the Gap of Dunloe (the wild and celebrated pass 
between Tomie's Mountain and Macguilley Cuddy's 
Reeks) the stations for musical echoes are various and 
interesting ; but in front of tbe remarkable cliff called 
the * Eagle's Nest,' which is washed by the river com- 
municating between the Upper and Lower Lakes of 
Killarney, the repercussion of sound is of the most 
striking and extraordinary description. The manner 
in which it is elicited is twofold— by the use of a gun 
and of the bugle. The place selected for the opera- 
tions has been determined by innumerable experi- 
ments ; and to any one acquainted with the principles 
of acoustics it is at once evident that it affords a com- 
bination of favourable circumstances. The cliff is of a 
peculiar form and vertical position, and is admirably 
calculated for the repercussion of sound. The gunner 
and bugleman are stationed on the opposite shore for 
the purpose of giving the primary sound ; the smooth 
and sheltered surface of the intervening water being 
well adapted for conducting the reverberations. The 
auditors are also on the opposite shore at a short dis- 
tance from the bugleman, at a place called the * Sta- 
tion of Audience.' At this spot the most happy com- 
binations of the direct and the reflected sounds arc 
obtained. 

" The surface whence the principal echoes are de- 
rived is a rock of a pyramidal form, rising almost per- 



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[February 8, 



pendicularly from the verge of the stream to the 
neigh t of from twelve to thirteen hundred feet. The 
base is covered with wood, which, from iU genera] 
evenness of surface, quickness of repose, and elasticity 
of foliage, may possibly reflect and modulate, instead 
of absorbing, the impressions received from the air by 
the action of the gun and the bugle. A slight conca- 
vity was observed in the surface of the rock immedi- 
ately above the thickest of the wood, by which a con- 
centration of the returning sound might possibly be 
produced. 

" When the gun is fired, the echoes, being given from 
a variety of surfaces on the cliff called the Eagle's 
Nest, and more remotely from the distant faces of the 
majestic mountains 4 Mangerton' and * Turk,' produce 
not only a return of the sound of the explosion with 
startling violence, but a protracted reverberation, con- 
tinuing for a space of nearly thirty seconds, so as to be 
usually compared, and that without extravagance, to a 
peal ot thunder or the discharge of a train of artillery. 
But the result of this experiment, which is more asto- 
nishing than pleasing, is too common in mountainous 
countries to justify any more particular description. 
Not so, however, the effect of the bugle. The first 
sound consists of one or two liquid notes of a simple 
air, resolving itself into a swelling burst of sweetly 
blending harmonies, in a manner altogether novel and 
enchanting.'* Mr. Scoresby states, that on the first 
burst of harmony he was lost in amazement on account 
of its singular richness and perfection ; but the chief 
properties of sound to which the phenomena were to 
be referred soon became evident ; and these appeared 
simply to be its repercussion from suitable reflecting 
objects, and its progression through the air, by which 
the intervals between the direct and the reflected tones 
of the bugle are occasioned. Assuming the distance 
of the bugleman, from the Station of Audience, to be 
one thousand feet, the distance of the principal reflect- 
ing surface on the Eagle's Nest from the same station 
fifteen hundred feet, and the reflecting surface from 
the bugleman one thousand feet ; then reckoning the 
velocity of sound, in round numbers, at a thousand 
feet in a second of time, we perceive that while the 
direct sound requires one second for its transmission, 
the reflected sound, having to travel 1000+1500 feet, 
must require about two seconds and a half before the 
same note reaches the audience, occasioning an interval 
of a second and a half. Hence if an air m crotchets 
were played in which the semibreve should occupy a 
second and a half of time, then the third crotchet 
of the direct sound would exactly coincide with the 
first crotchet of the echo, so as to produce, in many 
of the national airs of Scotland and Ireland, which are 
found to be peculiarly fortunate in their harmonies, 
a series of concords greatly resembling a regularly 
composed musical " canon.' The well known melody 
' Robin Adair' is referred to as an example. This air 
being played at the rate of a crotchet in three-fourths 
of a second of time, the echo of the first note, p, will 
coincide with the third crotchet, a, of the direct sound ; 
the next echo, being o, will be simultaneous with b 
flat ; the next reflected note, a, with b flat, passing into 
c ; and the next, being b flat, will coincide with the d 
of the direct sound, producing thus far, and indeed, 
with very few exceptions, throughout the air, a series 
of almost perfect harmonies. The general effect of 
this singular performance is greatly improved by the 
concealment of the bugleman. Whilst the audience are 
stationed in a low situation near the water's edge, the 
bugleman descends out of sight behind a point of land. 
Here, in a little sheltered spot close by the river, he 
executes bis simple melodies, which, on their evolu- 
tions, produce such wonderful and unexpected com- 
binations. The primary tones which reacn the audi- 



tory, being those chiefly coming round the point along 
the smooth surface of the stream (the more direct 
sounds being, probably, scarcely audible from their 
being deflected upward into the air by the vertical 
side of the river's bank), appear to come out of the clirF 
or in the same direction as the echoes, so as to render 
the auricular deception complete. The Eagle's Nest, 
indeed, seems to be the seat of a fairy orchestra ; and 
the performance, modulated by the occasional breeze, 
varied by the less distinct echoes, and accompanied at 
the interval of several seconds by the iEolian harmo- 
nies of the distant mountains, which become audible 
in the more delicate cadences, altogether produces an 
effect as novel and wonderful as it is enchanting. It is 
not to be expected, indeed, that the whole of these ac- 
cidental combinations form regular concords, yet the 
dissonances, from the liquid nature of the tones, are 
far from being disagreeable, while they often serve, 
like the discords introduced by skilful composers, to 
heighten the effect of the succeeding harmonies. 

The enjoyment experienced at the Station of Audi- 
ence is varied by the bugleman repeating a part of bis 
performance at the elevated ground from whence the 

Sin is discharged. The music elicited is pleasing, but 
e performer being then visible and the deception 
being consequently taken away, the interest is found 
to be very greatly diminished. 

Such is the account of one of the auxiliary pleasures 
of a visit to the Lakes of Killarney ; and such, though 
perhaps in a less perfect degree, is the curious pheno- 
menon which so strongly attracts the notice and the 
wonder of travellers to other mountain districts of our 
beautiful land. 

Saxon Architecture. — Theoretical and fabulous are the tales 
of those who say that the Saxons bad no majestic architecture ; 
that their churches and abbeys and monasteries were built 
almost entirely of vreod, without arches or columns, without 
aisles or cloisters ; and that there was no grandeur or beauty in 
the edifices of England until after the Norman conquest. The 
abbey built at Ely in the tenth century by the Saxon bishop 
Ethelwald was a stately stone edifice, vast in its dimensions, and 
richly ornamented in its details. Round-headed arches rested 
upon rows of massive columns ; the roof of the church and the 
roof of the great hall of the abbey were arched and towering ; 
and, high above all, a tower and steeple shot into the air, to 
serve as a landmark throughout the flat fenny country, and a 
guide to such as might lose themselves among the meres and 
the labyrinths of the willow forests.— Knight' t Weekly Fohime— 
The Camp of Refuge. 

■ — i *■— 

Chine** Stoves and Fuel in 1711. — Stoves are in use in Peking, 
not, however, such as I have seen in Germany, Holland, and 
England, standing in the room, like small ovens : here they are 
placed without the room, and the heat is transmitted to the 
apartment through pipes, which run completely under the floor. 
By the European method of warming bouses, our heads may be 
hot while our feet are cold, whereas in Peking the feet are always 
well warmed, and a moderate heat alike pervades every part of 
the room. Wood is very scarce, but there are mountains in the 
neighbourhood which appear entirely composed of coal like that 
of England ; and this is the fuel in general use. While I was 
living in Peking some Muscovites arrived who had never been 
there before. They built themselves stoves of the European kind, 
supposing that they were to be preferred ; but soon perceiving 
their error, they pulled tbem down, and adopted those of the 
Chinese. They likewise discovered that the expense of heating 
their own stoves exceeded that of the Chinese a hundred-fold : 
for in their own they were obliged to use a great deal of wood, 
which at Peking is exceedingly dear ; whereas the cost of fuel 
for the Chinese stove is a mere trifle, coals being very cheap, and 
the chimneys not more than a foot square, and two feet deep. In 
the southern part of China, the land being universally culti- 
vated, there is but little wood ; and as the expense of conveying 
coals would be very great, dry leaves, grass, weeds, and even the 
dung of an i malt, are used for fuel. — Father Ripae Retidence at 
the Court of Peking, in Murray* Home and Colonial Library. 



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[Combat of Hudibras and Sidrophel.] 



HUDIBRAS.— No. XI. 



Hudibras and the Astrologer first exchange civilities ; 
but the knight, quack and pretender as he was him- 
self, was an unbeliever in the quackeries and pre- 
tensions of astrology, which he Very efficiently ridi- 
cules, although, in confirmation of the power of his 
art, the astrologer informs him of the purpose of his 
visit :— 

" You are in love, sir, with a widow, 
Quoth he, that does not greatly heed you, 
And for three years sh' has rid your wit 
And passion, without drawing bit : 
And now your bus'ness if to know 
If you shall carry her or no. 

Quoth Hudibras, You're in the right, 
But how the devil you came by 't 
I can't imagine ; for the stars 
I am sure can tell no more than horsfe; 
Nor can their aspects (though ye pore 
Your eyes out on 'em) tell you more 
Than tli oracle of sieve and shears, 
That turns as certain as the spheres. 
But if the Devil 's of your council, 
Much may be done, my noble Dohzel ; 
And 'tis on this account I come 
To know from you my fatal doom." 

After some further discussion, the knight regaining 
unconvinced, Sidrophel endeavours to defend his art 
by quoting the old and exploded instances of its suc- 
cess, in which the author as ingeniously exposes its 
weakness as in the attacks of his antagonist :— 

" Quoth Sidrophel, It is no part 
Of prudence to cry down an art; 
And what it may perform, deny 
Because you understand not why. 
(As Averrhoes play'd but a mean trick, 
To damn our whole art for eccentric.) 
For who knows all that knowledge contains t 
Men dwell not on the tops of mountains. 
But on their side, or rising's seat : 
So 'tis with knowledge's vast height 



no. 826. 



Do not the hist'ries of all ages 
Relate miraculous presages 
Of strange turns in the world's affairs 
Foreseen b' astrologers, soothsayers, 
Chaldeans, learn'd Genethliacks, 
And some that have writ almanacs ? 



When Caesar in the senate fell, 

Did not the sun eclipsM fbretel, 

And, in resentment of his slaughter, 

Look pale for almost a year after ? 

Augustus, having b' oversight 

Put on his left shoe 'fore his right, 

Had like to have been slain that day 

By soldiers mutinying for pay. 

Are there not myriads of this sort, 

Which stories of all times report ? 

Is it not om'nous in all countries, 

When crows and ravens croak upon trees f 

The Roman senate, when within 

The city walls an owl was seen, 

Did cause their clergy with lustrations 

(Our synod calls humiliations) 

The round-fac'd prodigy t' avert, 

From doing town and country hurt. 

And if an owl have so much pow'r, 

Why should not planets have much more, 

That in a region far above 

Inferior fowls of the air move 

And should see farther, and foreknow 

More than their augury below ? 

Though that once served the polity 

Of mighty states to govern by ; 

And this is what we take in hand 

By pow'rful art to understand ; 

Which, how we have perform'd, all ages 

Can speak tb' events of our presages. 

Have we not lately in the moon 

Found a new world, to th' old unknown t 

Discover'd sea and land, Columbus 

And Magellan could never compass ? 

Made mouutains with our tubes appear, 

And cattle grazing on "em there f 

Vol. XIV.— I 



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■The last few Tines contain another sneer at the efforts 
of the Royal Society. Hudibras continues obstinate 
in his inciedulity, and asks, still pursuing the same 
subject — 

u But what, alas ! is it to us 
Whether i' th' moon men thus or thus 
Do eat their porridge, cut their corns, 
Or whether they have tails or horns f 
What trade from thence can you advance, 
But what we nearer have from France? 
What can our travellers bring home, 
That is not to be learnt at Rome % 
What politics, or strange opinions, 
That are not in our own dominions? 
What science can be brought from thence, 
In which we do not here commence? 
What revelations, or religions, 
That are not in our native regions? 
Are sweating- laiithoms, or screen-fans, 
Made better there than they re in France ? 
Or do they teach to sing and play 
On the guitar a newer way? 
Can they make plays there that shall fit 
The public humour with less wit? 
Write wittier dances, quainter shows, 
Or tight with mure ingenious blows? 
Or does the man i' th' moon look big, 
And wear a huger perriwig, 
Show in his gait or face more tricks 
Than our own native lunatics? 
Dut if we out- do him here at home, 
What good of your design can come? 
As wiud i' th 1 hypocondries pent 
Is but a blast if downward seut ; 
But if it upward chance to fly, 
Becomes new light aud prophecy. 
So when your speculations tend 
Above their just and useful end, 
Although they promise strange and great 
Discoveries of things far fet, 
They are but idle dreams and fancies, 
And savour strongly of the Ganzas.* 
Tell me but what 's the nat'ral cause 
Why on a sign no painter draws 
The full moon ever, but the half; 
Resolve that with your Jacob's staff: 
Or while wolves raise a hubbub at her, 
And dogs howl when she shines in water; 
And I shall freely give my vote, 
You may know something more remote.* 1 

The dispute grows hotter. Sidrophel " begins to 
Muster,'" and Hudibras retorts with a bitter attack on 
the practice of casiiug nativities :— 

'* Some towns and cities, some for brevity 
Have cast the 'versal world's nativity ; 
Aud made the infant stars confess, 
Like fools or children, what they please. 
Some calculate the hidden fates 
Of monkeys, puppy-dogs, and cats ; 
Some running-nags, and fighting-cocks, 
Some love, trade, law -suits, and the pox : 
Some take a measure of the lives 
Of fathers, mothers, husbands, wives ; 
Make opposition, trine and quartile, 
Tell who is barren and who fertile ; 
As if the planet's first aspect 
The tender infant did infect 
In soul and body, and instil 
All future good and future ill : 
Which in their dark fatal'ties lurking, 
At destin'd periods fall a- working, 
And break out, like the hidden seeds 
Of long diseases, into deeds, 
In friendships, enmities, and strife, 
And all th 1 emergencies of life : 

* Gonzago or Domingo Gonsales wrote a Voyage to the 
Moon, and pretended to be carried thither by geete (in Spanish, 
<tanzat). — C?rey. 



No sooner does he peep into 

The world but he has done his do, 

Catch'd all diseases, took all physic 

That cures or kills a roan that is sick ; 

Marry'd his punctual dose of wives, 

Is cuckolded, and breaks, or thrives. 

There s but the twinkling of a star 

Between a man of peace and war; 

A thief and justice, fool and knave, 

A huffing officer, and a slave ; 

A crafty lawyer, aud pickpocket, 

A great philosopher, and a blockhead ; 

A formal preacher, and a player, 

A learn'd physician, and manslayer. 

As if men from the stars did suck 

Old age, diseases, and ill luck, 

Wit, folly, honour, virtue, vice, 

Trade, travel, women, claps, and dice ; 

And draw with the first air they breathe 

Battle and murder, sudden death. 

Are not these fine commodities 

To be imported from the skies, 

And vended here among the rabble, 

For staple goods and warrantable ? 

Like money by the Druids borrow'd, 
' In th' other world to be restor'd." 
Sidrophel, thoroughly provoked, as the last and over- 
whelming proof of his knowledge, now says that by the 
stars be has become acquainted with Hud i brass pre- 
vious adventures, and relates some as given in the 
" paltry story," written in imitation of the original, to 
wlrica we have alluded, and concludes : — 
" Howe'er you vapour, 

I can what I affirm make appear ; 

Whachum shall justify 't t* your face, 

And prove he was upon the place : 

He played the Saltiubancho s part, 

Transformed t' a Frenchman by my art ; 

He stole your cloak, and pick'd your pocket, 

CbousM and caldees'd ye like a blockhead, 

And what you lost 1 can produce, 

If you deny it, here i* th' bouse/' 

Whereupon Hudibras denounces them both as " knaves 
and cheats," and dispatches Ralpho for a constable, 
while he " holds 'em at bay." 

« But Sidrophel, who from th' aspect 

Of Hudibras did now erect 

A figure worse portending far 

Than that of most malignant star, 

Believ'd it now the fittest moment 

To shun the danger that might come on t, 

While Hudibras was all alone, 

And he and Whachum two to one. 

This being resolv'd, he spy'd by chance 

Behind the door an irou lance, 

That many a sturdy limb had gor'd, 

And legs, and loins, and shoulders bor'd ; 

He snatch'd it up, and made a pass 

To make his way through Hudibras. 

Whachum had got a fire-fork, 

With which he vow'd to do his work. 

But Hudibras was well preparM, 

And stoutly stood upon his guard ; 

He nut by Sidrophelo's thrust, 

And in right manfully he rush'd : 

The weapon from his gripe he wrung, 

And laid him on the earth along. 

Whachum his sea-coal prong threw by, 

And basely tum'd his back to fly ; 

But Hudibras gave him a twitch 

As quick as lightning in the breech ; 

Just in the place where honour 's lodg'd, 

As wise philosophers have judg'd, 

Because a kick in that place more 

Hurts honour than deep wounds before. 

Quoth Hudibras, The stars determine 

You are my prisoners, base vermin ! 

Could they not tell you so, as well 

As what I came to know foretel? 



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By thii what cheat* you arc we find, 

That in your own concerns are blind ; 

Your lire* are now at my dispose, 

To be redeem'd by fine or blows ; 

But who his honour would defile, 

To take or sell two lives so vilet 

1 11 give you quarter : but your pillage, 

The conquering warrior's crop and tillage, 

Which with his sword he reaps and ploughs, 

That's mine, the law of arms allows." 

Hudibras proceeds to beat and plunder Sidrophel, 
who at length pretends to be dead, at which the 
knight becomes rather alarmed, but resolves to turn 
the event to the gratification of his revenge upon 
Ralph, by leaving him to answer for the supposed 
murder. The glee which he expresses at the contem- 
plated fate of his follower, and the humour of the de- 
scription of it, are inimitable : — 

M He held it now no longer safe 
To tarry the return of Ralph, 
But rather leave him in the lurch : 
Thought he, he has abus'd our church, 
Refus'd to give himself one firk 
To carry on the public work ; 
Despis d our synod-men like dirt, 
And made their discipline his sport ; 
Divulg'd the secrets of their classes, 
And their conventions proved high places ; 
Disparag'd their tithe-pigs, as pagan, 
And set at nought their cheese and bacou ; 
RaiVd at their covenant, and jeer'd 
Their rev 'rend parsons to my beard ; 
For all which scandals, to be quit 
At once, this juncture falls out fit. 
I'll make him henceforth to beware, 
And tempt my fury if he dare ; 
He must at least hold up his hand 
By twelve freeholders to be scanuM ; 
Who by their skill in palmfitry 
Will quickly read his destiny ! 
And make him glad to read his lesson, 
Or take a turn tor 't at the session : 
Unless his light and gifts prove truer 
Than ever yet they did, I 'm sure ; 
For if he 'scape with whipping now, 
'Tis more than he can hope to do : 
And that will disengage my conscience 
O' th' obligation, iu his own sense ; 
I il make him now by force abide 
What he by gentle means denied, 
To give my honour satisfaction, 
And right the brethren in the action. 
This being resolv'd, with equal speed 
And conduct he approach'd bis steed, 
And with activity uuwont 
Assay 'd the lofty beast to mount ; 
Which, once acbiev'd, he spurr'd his palfrey, 
To get from th' enemy and Ralph free; 
Left danger, fears, and foes behind, 
And beat, at least three lengths, the wind." 

This canto is followed by an Epistle to Sidrophel, 
published ten years subsequently, which has no real 
connexion with the poem, and the object of which is, 
under this name, to ridicule Sir Paul Neal, a member 
of the Royal Society, who had given offence by deny- 
ing to Butler the authorship of ' Hudibras.' The satire 
is sufficiently caustic, but it is not our purpose to notice 
it here. 

Climate e/ Kordofan. — During the dry season, everything in 
nature appears desolate aud dismal; the plants are burnt up; 
the trees lose their leaves, and appear like brooms; no bird is 
heard to sing ; no animal delights to disport in the gladness of 
its existence; every living being creeps towards the forest to 
secrete itself, seeking shelter from the fearful heat: save that, 
now and then, an ostrich will be seen traversing the desert fields 
in flying pace, or a giraffe hastening from one oasis to another. 



In this season, however, frightful hurricanes occasionally arise, 
and fill the minds of those who have not been witness of such a 
phenomenon in nature before, with the utmost cons' en tat ion. A 
powerful current of air, of suffocating heat, blows fiercely from 
one point of the heavens to the other, devastating everything 
that lies in its course. The atmosphere bears at these times 
generally a leaden grey appearance, and is impregnated with 
fine sand; the sun loses its brilliancy, and total darkness enve- 
lopes the earth, rendering it even difficult to distinguish objects 
at a few paces distant. The sky changes suddenly, becomes of 
a yellow colour, then assumes a reddish hue, and the sun appears 
as a blood-red disk. The wind howls, tears up everything 
within its reach; houses, fences, and trees by the roots, cairyiug 
them away with it; levels mounds of sand, and piles up fresh 
hills. In short, the devastation caused by a hurricane of this 
kind is beyond description. Unfortunate, indeed, is he who 
happens to be overtaken in the desert by one of these storms. 
There is no course left for him to save himself, but to throw 
himself with his face on the ground, in order to avoid suffocation 
by the pressure of the atmosphere. Respiration is totally im- 
peded; all the fibres are tightly contracted ; the chest threateus 
to burst for want of pure air; and a man of rather weak consti- 
tution, overtaken by one of these hurricanes iu the open air, gene- 
rally succumbs. But robust men, even those in full vigour of 
life, feel depressed iu every limb for several hours after expo- 
sure to these storms, and recover but slowly, aud by degrees. 
Animals fly and endeavour to conceal themselves ; every crea- 
ture, in fact, seeks a place of shelter. The camels on journeys 
indicate the storm before it breaks forth by an unsteadiness of 
gait, and by drooping their heads towards the ground. The 
rains begin in the month of June, and terminate with the month 
of October. Those who have not sj>ent this season in a tropical 
country can form no idea of the showers which then drench the 
earth. The storms generally arise in the east or iu the south. 
A small black cloud is, at first, perceived on the horizon, which 
increases as it approaches, spreads in a few minutes, with incre- 
dible velocity, over the whole region, and then descends. A 
fearful storm now rages ; flash upon flash, and peal succeeding 
]ieal, the lightning illumines the whole heavens, and the thunder 
rolls most fearfully, as if the sky were about to open and the 
earth to burs'.; streams of water pour dowu with violence, which 
the soil is i ^capable of imbibing, and torrents are thus formed, 
destined, however, soon to be lost iu the sands. Showers of this 
description generally last over one quarter of an hour, seldom for 
a longer period, and very rarely indeed are they repeated on the 
same day. They remit frequently during two, three, or even 
six days, and this is the most unhealthy, and even dangerous 
time both for strangers and natives; but it is admitted by 
general consent that those of white colour suffer more than the 
blacks. — Travels in Kordofan, by Ignatius Putlme. 



Chinese Fireworks. — The grand spectacle commenced with 
what appeared to be a great fountain of fire rising out of the 
ground. While this was burning, a great chest was raised iuto 
the air to the height of nearly one hundred feet, and from thence 
it let down a splendid wheel of fire. This was no sooner out 
than a great column descended from the chest to the earth, con- 
sisting of an infinite number of little stars, aud accompanied by 
four other columns formed of paper lanterns, all illuminated 
within. This beautiful sight lasted a consid. rable time, when 
another burning fountain appeared, nearly similar to the last ; 
then a variety of columns of different shapes and colours, which 
also continued some time, keeping the spectators iu a state of 
enchantment, all the Europeans admitting that they had never 
seen anything so admirable in their own countries. This part 
of the spectacle was succeeded by a pyrotechnic exhibition, 
which the Chinese call the war, being a discbarge of uumberless 
rockets, which move iu opposite directions, and then strike 
against some boards, producing a noise exactly similar to that of 
arrows shot from two contending armies. While this was going 
on, flaming fountains arose out of the earth in various direct ious, 
wheels and girandoles of fire were in motiou on all sides, aud 
the uproar was completed by continued and powerful reports like 
volleys of artillery. Fireworks, more jr less splendid according 
to circumstances, are also exhibited on this occasion at the seats 
of persons of rank, for the amusement and diversion of the ladies, 
and the lower orders in general are particularly fond of thi* 
amusement— Father Ripa's Residence at the Court of Peking : m 
Murray' $ Home and Cotomal Library. 



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[Garofalo, and a part of bis Vision of Su Augustine.] 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 
PA INTERS.- No. XXXVII. 

Scholars op Raphakl — concluded. 

One of there Ferrarese painters, BsifVKmjTO Garo- 
falo, studied for some time at Rome in the school of 
Raphael, but it does not appear that he assisted, like 
most of the other students, in any of his works. He 
was older than Raphael, and already advanced in his art 
before he went to Rome; but while there he knew 
how to profit by the higher principles which were laid 
down, studied assiduously; and with a larger, freer 
style of drawing* and a certain elevation in the expres- 
sion of bis heads, he combined the glowing colour 
which characterised the first painters of his native 
city. There is a small picture by Garofalo in our 
National Gallery (No. 81), which is a very fair ex- 
ample of his style. The subject is a Vision of St. Augus- 
tine, rendered still more poetical by the introduction 
of the Virgin and Child above, and the noble figure of 
St. Catherine, who stands behind the saint. Garofalo's 
small pictures are not uncommon ; his large pictures 
are cniefly confined to Ferrara and the churches 
around it. 

Tiraldi of Bologna, Innocenza da Imola, and Ti- 
motko della Vite were also painters of the Roman 



school, whose works are very seldom met with in 
England. 

Another painter, who must not be omitted, was 
Gidlio Clovio. He was originally a monk* and began 
by imitating the miniatures in the illuminated missals 
and psalm-books used in the Church. He then studied 
at Rome, and was particularly indebted to Michael 
Angelo and Giulio Romano. His works are a proof 
that greatness and correctness of style do hot depend 
on size and space; for into a few inches square, into 
the arabesque ornaments round a pa^e of manuscript, 
he could throw a feeling of the sublime and beautiful 
worthy of the great masters of art. The vigour and 

Erecision of his drawing in the most diminutive 
gures, the imaginative beauty of some of his tiny 
compositions, for Giulio was no copyist, is almost 
inconceivable. His works were enormously paid, and 
executed only for sovereign princes and rich prelates. 
Fifteen years of his life were spent in the service of 
Pope Paul III. (1534—1549), for whom his finest pro- 
ductions were executed. He died in 1578, at the age 
of eighty. 

Besides the Italians many painters came from be- 
yond the Alps to place themselves under the tuition of 
Raphael ; among these were Bernard von Orlay from 
Brussels, Michael Coxcis from Mechlin, and George 
Penz from Nuremberg. But the influence of Ra- 



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phael's mind and Btyle is not very apparent in any of 
these painters, of whom we shall have more to say 
hereafter. By George Penz there is a beautiful por- 
trait of Erasmus in the Royal Gallery at Windsor. 

Pedro Campana, who was a great favourite of 
Charles V., carried the principles of the Roman school 
into Spain. On the whole we may say that while 
Michael Angelo and Raphael displayed in all they did 
the inspiration of genius, their scholars and imitators 
inundated all Italy with mediocrity: 

u Art with hollow forms was fed, 
But the mm/ of art lay dead." 




[S|. Catherine.— From Tibaldi.] 



MUSCARDINE, 

A REMARKABLE DISEASE IN SILKWORMS. 
(Coneladea from p. 65.] 

The results of M. Audouin s experiments, as noticed 
in a former article, had sufficiently proved that mus- 
carine was a contagious malady. His next step in 
the inquiry was to determine its nature. If muscar- 
dine was really a vegetable substance, he was disposed 
to tkink that it did not begin to form until after the 
death of the insect ; that the insect was not killed by 
the germination of the plant within its body, but by 
some vegetable poison which it contained. 

To settle these questions a number of insects were 
inoculated with muscardine, and then their bodies were 
from time to time subjected to an anatomical inspec- 
tion, aided by the microscope : this plan enabled the 
observer to follow out the changes which took place in 
the insect from the time of inoculation up to death. 
On the 16th of July four chrysalides which had recently 
assumed that form were inoculated, and some hours 
titer one of them was dissected. Under the micro- 
icope the inoculating matter was readily distinguished 
utong the fatty suostance with which the insect is 
abundantly provided. It seemed to be com nosed of 



an infinite number of sporules supported by minute 
stems. 

On the 18th a second chrysalis was dissected, when 
an important change was noticed. The vegetable mat- 
ter presented certain prolongations resembling rootlets, 
spreading in all directions, and evidently due to an 
eccentric growth. The Thallus* was already evident, 
and about it were a number of little globules. The 
extremities of the rootlets appeared to be in immediate 
contact with the fatty matter of the chrysalis. It was 
necessary to employ a magnifying power of three or 
four hundred in order clearly to distinguish these de- 
tails. 

On the 19th a third chrysalis was examined. It ex- 
hibited no external marks of disease ; but dissection 
left no doubt as to the prodigious growth of the vege- 
table matter within the body. The thallus was com- 
posed of numerous filaments : from the point at which 
the insect had been inoculated a multitude of rootlets 
and branches proceeded in every direction ; and their 
structure was easily ascertained : some were furnished 
with little buds at their extremities ; while others were 
provided with two, three, or four lobes, the interior of 
which was filled with granules of an irregular shape. 
Occasionally the little globules above noticed separated 
from the thallus, and were conveyed by the surround- 
ing liquid to other places, where they became new 
centres of vegetation ; and thus by degrees the whole 
of the fatty substance was displaced, and the insect 
killed. 

These experiments were repeated on a number of 
silkworms in the larva state with precisely similar 
results, thus proving that the vegetable is parasitically 
developed during the life of the insect, and is, in fact, 
the sole cause of its death. But its external appear- 
ance is regulated by circumstances. It was found 
that if, after the death of the insect, its body were kept 
in a very dry place, the vegetable parasite did not 
appear on the exterior ; and in this way dead worms 
were preserved for more than a year ; but by placing 
them under a glass upon moist sand, the vegetation 
appeared in a day or two. 

The botanical examination of this minute vegetable 
was first entered into by M. Balsano, Professor of Na- 
tural History at the Lyceum of Milan. He decided 
that it was a species of Botrytis, or mildew, and named 
it Botrytis Bassiana, in honour of Dr. Bassi. It was 
afterwards examined with greater minuteness by M. 
Montagne, who named it B. paradoxa. He noticed 
that the branches of the thallus were transparent, 
and that their interior was filled with granules, which 
became spores. By placing these spores between two 
surfaces of glass, with moisture, they were made to 
germinate, thereby proving that the growth of the 
vegetable was not exclusively due to insect mat- 
ter, but to moisture. By placing the sporules on 
various moist organic substances, an immense num- 
ber of varieties were obtained. The dead bodies 
of silkworms were afterwards found to be liable 
to muBcardine if left in a damp place, although 
they had gone through their regular changes in per- 
fect health, had laid their eggs, and died in the natural 
manner. 

Since the botrytis may be thus developed on inert 
matter without inoculation by an animal attacked by 
the malady, an explanation is afforded of the sudden 
and extensive devastations of this disease in silkworm 
establishments where it had been previously unknown ; 
and the visitation is not merely explained, but a 
remedy suggested. Supposing the silkworms to have 
passed through ail their changes, and accomplished 
the term of their existence, their bodies are thrown 

* The thallus is the leafy part in lichens ; also the union of 
stem and leaf in those and some other tribes of imperfect plants. 



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out of doors, perhaps upon the dunghill, or at any rate 
in some place where warmth, air, and moisture soon 
produce fermentation. In a short time muscardine 
:s produced on the bodies of the insects, and its minute 
seed is borne by the winds, and diffused among nume- 
rous nurseries, which till then had been celebrated for 
fine healthy worms. Thus contagion may be spread 
through a whole village, nay, through a whole dis- 
trict ; for a single insect infected with muscardine 
may produce millions of seeds. Even the eggs may 
be infected by these seeds; for when some eggs were 
dusted over with muscardine by way of experiment, 
two-thirds of the worms died six days after they were 
hatched. In another case where a dead fly, covered 
with muscardine, was simply placed near the eggs, 
above half the worms died in an equal time after being 
hatched. But in these experiments the dead worms 
were separated every day from the survivors. The 
results must be far more fatal in ordinary nurseries, 
where litter is allowed to remain unchanged during 
several days, and the dead worms are left in contact 
with the living. 

The remedies, or rather the preventives, to be em- 
ployed in these cases (as given in a published memoir 
by M. Johanys), are as follows: — Previously to the 
time of hatching, if the eggs be washed in water con- 
taining one-twentieth part of alcohol, or of sulphate of 
copper, or of nitrate of lead, muscardine will not 
appear, even if the eggs had previously been dusted 
over with the powder of muscardine. Indeed it had 
long been customary with rearers to wash the eggs with 
wine, under the idea of strengthening the worms, and 
by so doing they had in many cases preserved the eggs 
from an unsuspected evil, by washing off or destroying 
the minute seeds of muscardine. 

The results of an extensive series of experiments 
have established that a solution of sulphate of copper, 
or of nitrate of lead, employed to wash the walls of the 
rooms where the silkworms are hatched, as well as the 
boxes and various utensils employed in nursing them, 
is almost, if not entirely, effectual in preventing 
muscardine. 

The malady is doubtless developed by contact ; that 
is. by the seeds of the botrytis attaching themselves to 
the living animal. It is therefore necessary to watch 
the silkworms, and every day to remove the dead : so 
also, the moment one of them exhibits a white powder 
on the surface of the body, it must be taken away, lest 
the germs of the disease should be diffused by the 
agitation of the air. By adopting these precautions 
M. Johanys was able to rear silkworms with perfect 
success in boxes that bad been washed in nitrate of 
lead, &c, although in other boxes, contained in the 
same room where he conducted all his experiments, 
the silkworms were dying by hundreds. 

The result of one experiment forcibly illustrated the 
necessity of removing sick and dead worms from the 
living. On the 12th of June four hundred worms 
were distributed in two boxes, one of which had been 
washed with sulphate of copper. In each box were 
placed some worms dead of muscardine: the dead 
were not removed, nor was the litter changed until the 
end of the experiment. On the fourth day, that is, 
on the 16th, the mortality commenced, and by the 21st 
all the worms were dead: in one box, and only eleven 
were alive in the other. The survivors were in 
the box the sides of which had been washed with the 
solution of copper; but this experiment shows 
how comparatively useless all preparation is, unless 
the sick and dead worms are every day removed 
from the living, and unless the litter be constantly 
renewed. 

At the request of the Royal Academy of Science at 
Paris, M. Dutrochet prepared a report on the nature 



of this disease and the remedies proposed. He states 
that acid and ammoniacal fumigations are useless ; 
that a solution of corrosive. sublimate and fumes of 
sulphur had been employed with tolerable success; 
but he recommends rigid cleanliness and good ventila- 
tion as the best preservatives. 



BALLO DEGLI ORSI, OR BEAR-DANCING, 
AT ROME. 

[Concluded from p. 54.] 

A French dancing-master, on observing the uncouth 
gambols and gambades of some uninstructed clowns, 
said with an oracular shrug of the shoulders, and a voice 
of much pathos — 4< Poor human nature ! it cannot 
dance of itself: it roust be taught!" This is equally 
true of ursine nature : bears, like men, must be taught 
ere they can dance. We have explained on a former 
occasion the first lesson and rudiments of bear-dancing 
as they used to be taught in the mountains of the 
duchy of Parma.* A great deal depended upon the 
bear's chatusttre. Bruins fore-legs were left in their 
natural state, but his hind-legs were protected by a 
sort of boot or buskin made of leather, and having a 
wooden sole. Being thus chauu6> be was put upon a 
heated flagstone, with a charcoal fire underneath it ; 
and then bruin naturally raised his unprotected fore- 
paws in the air, and moved his hind-legs up and down 
in order to avoid the heat of the flagstone, upon which 
he was kept by means of ropes and a circle of strong 
hoops. Wnile he capered, his instructors blew their 

I)ipes and beat their drums or their tabors. After a 
ew lessons of this sort Bruin would stand upon his 
hind-legs and cut capers as soon as ever he heard the 
music. But to make a Vestris bear it was necessary 
to take him in hand in his early life. Not only doe's 
not human nature dance of itself, but it is scarcely to 
be taught after it has attained to years of discretion. 
The Polka-mania which has made the middle-aged and 
even the old whose education had been neglected in 
their youth, to think of learning to dance — which has 
led to the formation of Polka clubs and Polka classes, 
wherein fathers and grandfathers are toiling two nights 
a week to master the difficulties of the heel and toe 
step, hath also demonstrated in a very forcible manner 
the expediency and, in fact, the indispensable neces- 
sity of early tuition. Madame Michaud, that best of 
teachers for the young, will tell you that she can 
hardly have her children too young. It is just the 
same with bears. 

Some speculators of the Val di Taro once made 
a great mistake which was attended with very 
serious consequences. Being at Genoa, they heard 
of a very fine big bear that was on board a Bal- 
timore schooner. They bargained with the Yankee 
skipper, who was very glad to get rid of so troublesome 
a passenger, but who nevertheless made them pay a 
good price for the monster. It was a beast of the very 
biggest size, and no doubt would have been very at- 
tractive if only he could have been tamed and taught ; 
but he was an old bear, and had lived a long time in 
the republic of the United States. He had not been a 
day in the possession of the poor Italians before they 
wished him down the skipper's throat or back at Bal- 
timore. Great was the toil and trouble they had in 
getting him across the Apennines from Genoa to their 
own secluded valley : he was sullen, morose, and at 
the same time snappish and petulant. But it was not 
until they tried to give him his first dancing lesson 
(his education had been entirely neglected all the while 
he had been living under the Stripes and Stars) that 
. * Vol. ii. 1st series, No. 54. 



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they found what an untamable monster they had got. 
The flagstone being prepared, he was brought forth. 
With much difficulty ana some danger the boots or 
buskins were put upon his hind-legs ; but when they 
.^ot him upon the stone and stirred up the charcoal 
beneath, Misericordia! there was no holding him. As 
soon as he felt the heat, instead of lifting his fore- 
paws up in the air and dancing on his hind ones, he 
uttered a fearful growl, made a still more fearful 
spring, and breaking hoops and cordage, and upsetting 
all the men that opposed him, he burst away and made 
with all speed for the wooded side of the mountain 
with some of the broken ropes hanging to him. The 
poor men, tearing their hair and cursing the day that 
they had seen him, followed as fast as they could ; but 
though they might have shot him, they found it im- 
possible to capture him alive ; which, seeing the 
price they had paid for him to the Baltimore skipper, 
they were naturally anxious to do. The monster was 
thus allowed to gain the covert of the thick wood, 
where he abided for some time to the great terror of 
the mountaineers, and to their no small loss, for he 
killed several of their goats and sheep. It was even 
said that he killed and ate up a child; while, on the 
other side of the mountains, it was reported that he 
had killed and eaten not one child, but a whole family. 
The magistrates and other local athorities of Borgo Val 
di Taro, Compiano, Bardi. Bedonia, and all the neigh- 
bouring townships and villages, were alarmed by the 
reports they heard, and in their first anger an order 
was issued for throwing into prison the unlucky bear- 
wards who had brought such an undisciplinable, 
perilous, unmannered, and unmanageable bear into the 
country. In the end, however, the justices of the peace 
did what was much better : they sent out a company 
of soldiers, the whole Posse Comitatus, armed as sports- 
men, and invited the peasantry to a grand battue. 
The poor bear-wards received an invitation ; but their 
hearts were sad — they were grieving after the hard 
dollars which the Yankee skipper had got from them 
— and so they declined attending, saying (which was 
true enough) that they were no sportsmen, and that it 
was their business not to shoot bears, but to teach bears 
how to dance. The battue was made, and the bear 
being surrounded, was finally killed— though not until 
he had almost as many balls in him as there are stars 
in the banner under which he had lived and sailed. 
We believe that since this time none of the Proveditori 
and none of the teachers have ever dealt with an old 
American bear. 

The bears we saw exhibited at Rome and in the 
other parts of Italy, were all imported from places far 
abroad, from different foreign countries. Yet there are 
bears of native growth, bears that are born and that 
die in mountains not many miles from the Eternal 
City. Horace was once frightened bv finding a wild 
bear in his path ; and the present wild bears of the 
Italian mountains are no doubt descended from the 
same stock as the bruin that scared the great Roman 
poet. Some travellers have laughed at Horace's fright, 
and have questioned whether he could have met a real 
wild bear : this scepticism is allied with ignorance. 
The rugged and lofty summits of the Great Rock of 
Italy (II Grand Sasso d'ltalia), the highest peak in the 
peninsula, nearly always covered with deep snow ; the 
mountains above Aquila; the upper parts of Monte 
Majello, that towers above Sulmona; and some other 
portions of the Apennines which lie within the two 
provinces of the Abruzzi — all abound with wolves, and 
have, though in much smaller numbers, native wild 
bears. We never saw one, but were told that they 
were not unfrequently seen by sportsmen ; and on 
crossing Monte Majello, which has in its deep crevasses 



fields of ice and glaciers, we were shown marks in the 
snow which our guide confidently declared to be the 
foot-marks of a bear. They seemed newly made and 
certainly were not the foot-marks of the wolf or of any 
of the wild animals usually inhabiting those regions. 
We were told that this native bear was too shy and wild 
to be taught dancing ; and that, from his infeiior size, he 
would be but an unattractive performer and spectacle 
compared with the big bears brought from foreign 
parts. 

If our memory does not betray us, some few Abruz- 
zesi bears were however, in former times, caught, 
taught, and exhibited. However this may be, or whether 
there were native Italian bears that danced to pipe 
and tabor in the streets of Rome and all through 
Europe, it is certain that there have been Abruzzesi 
bear- wards— men that have wandered from these moun- 
tains with bear and monkey over a good part of the 
world. One of them found in England a loving Eng- 
lishwoman who quitted her home and country tor him, 
who crossed the sea with him when he re-crossed the 
Dover Straits, and who followed him and his bear, on 
foot, through France and Savoy, across the mighty 
Alps, over the Apennines, and through all Italy until 
he regained his home in the mountains of the Abruzzi. 
As we were approaching a very small hamlet situated 
in one of the ruggedest parts of Monte Majello, our 
guide told us that we should there find a countrywoman, 
the wife of an honest old man who, in his young days, 
had gone about the world with a dancing bear. We 
hurried to make this curious acquaintance. The good 
woman, whose name, Mary, had easily been Italianized 
into Maria, appeared then to be at least sixty years old, 
though, from ner own account, she must have been 
some ten yeara younger. She had led a life of hard 
toil, and the peasantry of these bleak and poor regions 
are obliged to live very sparingly. She had been more 
than thirty years in these mountains, and in all that 
time had never seen a countryman or heard a word of 
her own language, except some score of words, nuch 
as bread, beer, meat, money, &c, which her husband 
had picked up when strolling from town to town in 
England with his bear, and which he would repeat 
now and then, when he was merry, to make her heart 
glad. She # had almost forgotten her own tongue ; 
her vocabulary of English words was not much more 
copious than her husband's; but still there was no 
mistaking the country of her birth and parentage. 
She told us, in very curious Italian, that she came from 
a small village not far from Manchester; that her 
family were all poor weavers who worked at home in 
their own cottage, and that she herself had learned to 
work a little in that way when the Italian destined to 
be her husband came to the village ; that both man 
and bear were accommodated with lodging in her 
father's house or in a shed behind it ; that she was 
mightily afraid of the bear, but became very fond 
of his keeper, who was very fond of her ; that they 
made love by signs and by an exchange of services and 
kind deeds ; and that so, when he and his bear had 
perambulated all that district, and had collected all the 
pennies they could, and were about to take their depar- 
ture for ever, the man cried, and she cried, and then 
the man showed that he would stay a little longer ; and 
then, by means of sign-making and other natural ex- 
planations, it was agreed and fully settled that they 
should be man and wife ; and as quickly as could be 
they were married in her own village church, and since 
her coming into her husband's country she had been 
married again by his village priest. She told us with 
some fond pride, that her Giovanni was a bright-eyed 
handsome young man with long jet-black hair, when 
she married him and first began to tramp with him and 



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his bear. He was old now — a pood many years older 
than herself— and his hair was grey and his beard very 
rough and white; but for the rest he was a hale man, 
with that honest open countenance which prevails very 
generally amongst the mountaineers of the Abruzzi. 
They had had sundry children, of whom some had died 
in their infancy, and one or two in the French armies, 
into which they had been forced by Bonaparte's con- 
scription. A aaughter and a son were still living ; the 
daughter was out at service in the town of Sulmona ; 
the son was a good shepherd, and out among the 
mountains with his master's sheep. The matron said 
she was little more than sixteen when she married. 
As well as we could make out from her very loose 
dates and her few and yet confused details of facts, she 
must have left England in 1792 or 1793, or immediately 
before this country joined in the first great war of the 
French Revolution. After staying some time in France, 
she and her husband, in company with other wander- 
ing Italians, set off for Italy, taking their way through 
Savoy and across Mont Cenis : they were much dis- 
turbed, alarmed, and hindered. The fine easy road 
across the Alps had not yet been made; the ascent to 
and the descent from the Cenis were then nothing 
but mule-paths, rough, narrow, and dangerous. All 
the passes of the Alps they came near unto were occu- 
pied by troops, and great batteries, or were daily visited 
by marching columns. The troops must have been 
those which belonged on the one side to the French 
Republic, and on the other to the King of Sar- 
dinia and the Emperor of Germany : they were des- 
perately contending for the passes of the Alps and the 
dominion of Upper Italy ; they were engaged in the 
most momentous of struggles, and the destiny of nations 
depended upon the result of the long conflict. But all 
this was as nothing to the poor young Englishwoman 
and her husband, whose sole care was how to get their 
dancing bear with safety to the other side of the moun- 
tains. If they lost their bear they would lose their 
little all ; if they saved their bear, let French repub- 
licans succeed in forcing tneir way into Italy, or let the 
armies of the King of Sardinia and the Emperor suc- 
ceed in keeping them out of it, Giovanni, with his wife 
and dancing-bear, might jog quietly along from Susa 
to Turin and from Turin to Rome, living and even sav- 
ing a little money on the way; and when his long 
campaign should be ended, Giovanni might sell his 
well-taught bear for a good price, and carry the money 
home with him to his mountains. Sad were their fears, 
exhausting their troubles : at times they gave them- 
selves up to despair and looked upon the bear as no 
better than dead; for the rude unconscionable soldiers, 
after making him dance for nothing, would threaten to 
shoot him for sport ; but in the end they got through the 
Alps, and the armies, and all their troubles. Giovanni 
sold his bear before he reached Rome, and then going 
to his own mountains he abandoned that line of lite en- 
tirely. At the time of our visit (it will soon be twenty 
years ago) the old couple had a small piece of ground 
and a stone-built cottage of their own. The woman 
had never heard from her country since the day she 
left it. For many a long year the war interrupted all 
communication, and it is more than probable tnat her 
family were not naturally epistolary correspondents. 
Her own accomplishments included neither reading 
nor writing ; ana her husband had never attended any 
school except the bear's dancing-school. She was evi- 
dently glad to see a countryman, and she offered us 
some bread and milk, which seemed all she had in the 
house to offer; but when we asked her whether she 
would not like to see her own country again before she 
died, she shook her head, and said that it was many 
a year too late to think of that ; that she was very 



well where she was; that if she returned nobody 
would know her and she would know nobody, and 
that her father and mother must have been dead long 



Markets of Centra. Asia. — Manufacturers who work chiefly 
for the markets of Central Asia must also study mure diligently 
the prevailing taste of the Asiatics. Thus, for instance, muslin 
turbans with gold borders at both ends, as they are manufactured 
with us, are more sought after than muslins brought from other 
quarters. The muslins of Glasgow, for example, which ha?e 
birds represented on them, cannot be used by Mussulmans in 
making their namaz, for they represent the figure of a living 
creature. It was a lucky idea on the part of our Moscow manu- 
facturers, who sent out last year checked turbans; for they not 
only pleased the Tajiks and Uzbeks, but the Afghans also. 
Their quick sale shows how advantageous it is to study variety 
in saleable articles suited to the wants and caprices of one s cus- 
tomers. We have another instance of the truth of this assertion, 
and that is in sending sugar in small loaves instead of large 
ones. Asiatics are in the habit of making presents to their friends 
in sugar ; and as it would be reckoned uncivil to send pieces 
cut from a large loaf of sugar, they would have either to abstain 
from making such presents on account of the expense, or put 
themselves to the inconvenience of laying out a considerable 
sum of money. — Bokhara : its Amir and its People; by Hie Baron 
C. de Bode. 



Chinese Gardening in 1711. — This, as well as the other country 
residences which I have seen in China, is in a taste quite different 
from the European ; for whereas we seek to exclude nature by 
art, levelling hills, drying up lakes, felling trees, bringing paths 
into a straight line, constructing fountains at a great expense, and 
raising flowers in rows, the Chinese on the contrary, by means 
of art, endeavour to imitate nature. Thus in these gardens 
there are labyrinths of artificial hills, intersected With numerous 
paths and roads, some straight and others undulating ; some in 
the plain and the valley, others carried over bridges and to the 
summit of the hills by means of rustic work of stones and shells. 
The lakes are interspersed with islets upon which small pleasure- 
houses are constructed, and which are jeached by means of boats 
or bridges. To these houses, when fatigued with fishing, the 
emperor retires accompanied by his ladies. The woods contain 
hares, deer, and game in great numbers, and a certain animal 
resembling the deer, which produces musk. Some of the open 
spaces are sown with grain and vegetables, and are interspersed 
with plots of fruit-trees and flowers. Wherever a convenient 
situation offers, lies a house of recreation, or a dwelling fo» the 
eunuchs. There is also the seraglio, with a large open space in 
front, in which once a month a fair is held for the entertainment 
of the ladies; all the dealers being the eunuchs themselves, who 
thus dispose of articles of the most valuable and exquisite de- 
scription. — Father Ripa's Residence at the Court of Peking : us 
Murray's Home and Colonial Library. 



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Four years ago we commenced in the * Penny Maga- 
zine* a series of articles, under the denomination of 
* Chaucer's Portrait Gallery,' which had for their main 
object the hope of making one of the greatest but most 
neglected of English poets more familiar to his coun- 
trymen. The portion of his writings that then engaged 
our attention was the Prologue or Introduction to 
the 'Canterbury Tales,' in which the characters of 
the pilgrims to Thomas-a-Beckett's shrine are all 
described, and the plan of the poem explained. 
We now propose to introduce our readers to some 
of the Tales told by the different pilgrims on their 
journey. 

In the treatment of the Tales our aim will be, whilst 
transcribing many passages which may convey to an 
ordinary reader the worthiest idea of their author, to 
preserve at the same time most strictly the continuous 
interest of the story, by making our own connecting 
prose, as far as possible, a pure reflex, in feeling, 
thought, and words, of the poetry we omit. Glossarial 
or slight explanatory aud illustrative notes will, as 
before, be given at the foot of each page. With regard 



no. 827. 



to the verse, we have only to request the reader's atten- 
tion to the rule — adopted for the avoidance of unne- 
cessary marks of accentuation — that when the spelling 
of a word differs from the ordinary spelling, it will be 
found in a great number of instances to mark at once the 
oronunciatton required : — thus, the spelling generally 
being modernized, we have considered " muste" need 
not be printed " mustS" to show that the word must is 
to be pronounced as a dissyllable. 

The methods of accentuation we have adopted are 
these : — 1. Words in which the accent falls upon a dif- 
ferent syllable than the one at present emphasized, are 
marked with an acute accent, as honour for honour. 
2. Where additional syllables (exclusive of diphthongs) 
are to be sounded, without any change in the spelling 
or in the emphasis, they are pointed out by the grave 
accent, as wnt£, morS. 3. In Chaucer's time the indi- 
vidual sounds of both vowp\r in diphthongs appear to 
have been commonly preserved in speech, a custom 
still lingering in the north of England; and in writing 
such words therefore as creature, truely, and absolution, 
they are marked creature, truely, and absolution, and 

Vol. XIV.— K 



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must be pronounced accordingly, just as in Leeds to 
this day oread is continually heard of as bread, and 
dream as dream. 

Following Chaucer's own order, we commence with 
the magnificent * Knights Talk.' The pilgrims, it 
will be remembered, in telling their stories, speak in 
the first person. Thus it is the Knight, of course, that 
here speaks : — 

Whilom,* as olde stories tellen tig, 

There was a duke that hightef Theseus ; 

Of Athens he was lord and governor, 

And in his time such a conqueror 

That greater was there none under the sun. 

Full many a riche country had he won. 

What with his wisdom, and his chivalry, 

He conquer' d all the regne of Feminie,$ 

That whilom was yclep&d} Scythia, 

And wedded the fresh queen Hypolita ; 

And brought her home with him to his country 

With muchel glory and great solemnity, 

And eke her younge sister, Emily. 

And if it were not too long, I would have told you fully 
the manner of this conquest, and of the great battle 
fought betwixt the Athenians and the Amazons, and 
how Hypolita had been besieged ; also of the feasts 
that took place at her wedding, and of the temple 
raised in her honour, on her coming to the home of 
her conqueror and husband. But I must forbear, and 
so will begin again where I left off. When Theseus 
was almost come to Athens, 

In all his weal, and in his moste pride, 

he saw that 

there kneeled in the highe way 

A company of ladies, tway and tway, 
Each after other, clad in clothes black, 
But such a cry, and such a woe they make 
That in this world n* is creature living 
That ever heard such another waimenting ;|| 
And of this cry ne would they never stenteu^ 
Till they the reines of his bridle henten.** 

Who are ye, that thus at my coming home disturb so 
my festival with crying? inquired Theseus. Is it in 
envy of mine honour, that ye thus complain? Or who 
hath harmed or offended you ? Tell me, if that your 
wrongs may be mended ; and also why ye be thus all 
dad in black? 

The oldest of the ladies then spake : — 

She saide, Lord, to whom Fortune hath given 
Victory, and as a conqueror to liven, 
Nought grieveth us your glory and your honour, 
But we beseecbe you, of mercy aud succour, 
Have mercy on our woe and our distress, 
Some drop of pity through thy gentleness 
Upon us wretched women let now fall ; 
For certes, Lord, there n' is none of us all 
That she n' hath been a duchess or a queen : 
Now we be caitives,ff as it is well seen ; 
Thanked be Fortune and her false wheel 
That none estate ensureth to be wele. 

And, certes,* Lord, abiding your coming, we have 
waited here in the temple of Clemency all this past 
fortnight : now, then, help us, since it lies in thy power 
to do so. I, wretched wight, that weep and wail thus, 
was wife to King Orpaneus that died at Thebes ; cursed 
be the day ! And all those that here join with me in 
this array aud this lamentation, have lost their husbands 
at that town, when it was besieged. And yet now 

* Formerly. t Was called. 

% The kingdom, or queendora as it should rather be called, of 
the female «, or Amazous. $ Called. 

II Lamentation. f Stint or cease. ** Laid hold of. 
ff Wretches.' 



Creon, the old lord of Thebes, in his ire, and in his ini- 
quity, and in order to dishonour the dead, has caused 
all the bodies to be thrown on a heap together, 
and will neither suffer them to be buried nor burnt ; 
but in despite maketh hounds to eat them.* 

And then the ladies fell flat upon their faces, and 
once more cried piteousiy, 

Have on us wretched women some merc5', 
And let our sorrow siukeu in thine heart. 

This gentle duke down from his courser start 
With hearte piteous, when he heard them speak ; 
Him thoughte that his heart would all to-break,f 

to see those who were once of such great estate, now 
cast down so low. He took them up and held them 
in his arms, whilst he comforted them, swearing as a 
true knight that he would so take vengeance of Creon, 
that all Greece should speak of his crimes, and their 
just punishment. 

Theseus would not even enter Athens, that he was 
so near, and spend there a few hours, but having sent 
Hypolita his queen, and her sister Emily, into the 
town, he displayed his banner, and rode forth towards 
Thebes, with all his host. There he slew Creon, and 
won the city : 

And to the ladies he restored again 

The bodies of their husbands that were slain, 

To do the obsequies, as was then the guise. 

It would occupy too long to describe the great cla- 
mour and lamentations which the ladies made at the 
burning of the bodies of their deceased husbands, or 
the honourable manner in which Theseus afterwards 
dismissed them. But I may say, shortly, that when 
the duke had slain Croon, and won Thebes, as he 
lay all night in the field, the pillers,$ as they went 
about among the heaps of dead searching to see 
if any wounded men were yet alive and required 
their care, 

they found 

Through girt with many a grievous bloody wound 

Two younge knightes, liggiug§ by and by,(| 

Both in one araies,^ wrought full richely, 

Of which, two, Arcite hight that one, 

And he that other, highte Palamon. 

Not fully quick,** nor fully dead they were; 

But by their coat-armour, and by their gear 

The heralds knew them well in special 

Ai those that wereu of the blood reulf f 

Of Thebes, and of sisters two yborn. 

The pillers took them out of the heap, and carried 
them tenderly to the tent of Theseus, who, finally, sent 
them to Athens, to remain in perpetual captivity. He 
then rode home to Athens, crowned witli laurel as a 
conqueror, and there lived the remainder of his life 
in joy and honour. As to Palamon and Arcite, they 



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dwelt, full of anguish, in the tower that was to be 
their eternal prison : no amount of gold might ransom 
them. 



[To be continued.] 

Tktt Art of Writing well, — To the influence of association on 
language it is necessary for every writer to attend carefully, who 
wishes to express himself with elegance. For the attainment of 
correctness and purity in the use of words, the rules of gram- 
marians and critics may be a sufficient guide : but it is not in 
the works of this class of authors that the higher beauties of style 
are to be studied. As the air and manner of a gentleman can 
only be acquired by living habitually in the best society, so grace 
in composition must be attained by an habitual acquaintance 
with the classical writers. It is indeed necessary for our in- 
formation, that we should peruse occasionally many books which 
have no merit in point of expression ; but 1 believe it to be extremely 
useful to all literary men, to counteract the effect of this mis- 
cellaneous reading by maintaining a constant and familiar ac- 
quaintance with a few of the most faultless models which the 
language affords. For want of some standard of this sort we 
frequently see au author's taste in writing alter much to the 
worse in the course of his life, and his later productions fall 
below the level of his essays.' — Dugald Stewart'* Philosophy of the 
Human Mind. 



Sugar-making in Jamaica. — I saw the whole process of sugar- 
making this morning. The ripe canes are brought in bundles to 
the mill, where the cleanest of the women are appointed, one to 
put them into the machine for crushing them, and another to 
draw them out after the juice has been extracted, when she 
throws them in an opening in the floor close to her ; another band 
of negroes collects them below, when, under the name of trash, 
they are carried away to serve for fuel. The juice, which is itself 
at first a pale ash-colour, gushes out in great streams, quite white 
with foam, and passes through a wooden gutter into the boiling- 
house, where it is received into the siphon, or 'cock-copper,' 
where fire is applied to it, and it is slaked with lime in order to 
make it granulate. The feculent parts of it rise to the top, while 
the purer and more fluid flow through another gutter into the 
second copber. When little but the impure scum on the surface 
remains to oe drawn off, the first gutter communicating with the 
copper is stopped, and the grosser parts are obliged to find a new 
course through another gutter, which conveys them to the dis- 
tillery, where, being mixed with the molasses, or treacle, they 
are manufactured into rum. From the second copper they are 
transmitted into the first, and thence into two others, and in these 
four latter basins the scum is removed with skimmers pierced 
with boles, till it becomes sufficiently free from impurities to be 
snipped off, that is, to be again ladled out of the coppers and 
spread into the coolers, where it is left to granulate. The sugar 
is then formed, and is removed into ibe curing-house, where it is 
put into hogsheads, and left to settle for a certain time, during 
which those parts which are too poor and too liquid to granulate 
drip from the casks into vessels placed beneath them : these drip- 
pings are the molasses, which, being carried into the distillery, 



and mixed with the coarser scum formerly mentioned, form that 
mixture from which the spirituous liquor of sugar is afterwards 
produced by fermentation : when but once distilled it is called 
( low wine ;' and it is not till after it has gone through a second 
distillation that it acquires the name of rum. The * trash * used 
for fuel consists of the empty canes; that which is employed for 
fodder and for thatching is furnished by the superabundant cane- 
tops, after so many are set apart as are required for planting. 
After these original plants have been cut, their roots throw up 
suckers, which in time become canes, and are called ratoons ; they 
are far inferior in juice to the planted canes ; but then, on the other 
hand, they require much less weeding, and spare the negroes the 
only laborious part of the business of sugar-making — the digging 
holes for the plants ; therefore although an acre of ratoons will 
produce but one hogshead of sugar, while an acre of plants will 
produce two, the superiority of the ratooned piece is very great, 
inasmuch as the saving of time and labour will enable the pro- 
prietor to cultivate five acres of ratoons in the same time with one 
of plants. Unluckily, after three crops, or five at the utmost, 
in general the ratoons are totally exhausted, and you are obliged 
to have recourse to fresh plants.— M, G. Lewis's Jamaica:— 
Murray's Home and Colonial Library. 



Tartar Surgery. — The author had fallen from his horse, and 
gives the following account of his cure : — When I recovered my 
senses, I found myself in a house, but every thing appeared dark 
and indistinct, and I felt as if I had fallen from my horse two 
months before. The emperor sent me a Tartar surgeon, for he 
and his court were fully persuaded that for falls Tartar surgeons 
were better than Europeans. And, to confess the truth, although 
the mode of treatment was of a barbarous description, and some 
of the remedies appeared useless, I was cured in a very short 
time. This surgeon made me sit up in my bed, placing near 
me a large basin filled with water, in which he put a thick piece 
of ice, to reduce it to a freexing-point. Then stripping me to 
the waist, he made me stretch my neck over the basin, and, with 
a cup, be continued for a good while to pour the water on my 
neck. The pain caused by this operation upon those nerves 
which take their rise from the pia-mater was so great and insuf- 
ferable, that it seemed to me unequalled. The surgeon said that 
this would stanch the blood and restore me to my senses, which 
was actually the case ; for in a short time my sight became 
clear, and my mind resumed its powers. He next bound my 
head with a band, drawn tight by two men, who held the ends, 
whiL he struck the intermediate part vigorously with a piece of 
wood, which shook my head violently, aud gave me dreadful 
pain. This, if I remember rightly, he said was to set the brain, 
which he supposed had been displaced. It is true, however, that 
after this second operation my head felt more free. A third 
operation was now performed, during which he made me, still 
stripped to the waist, walk in the open air, supported by two 
persons; and, while thus walking, he unexpectedly threw a 
bowl of freezing cold water over my breast. As this caused me 
to draw my breath with great vehemence, and as my chest had 
been injured by the fall, it may be easily imagined what were 
my sufferings under this infliction. The surgeon informed me 
that, if any rib had been dislocated, this sudden and hard 
breathing would restore it to its natural position. The next 
proceeding was not less painful and extravagant. The operator 
made me sit upon the ground ; then, assisted by two t men, he 
held a cloth upon my mouth and nose till I was nearly suffo- 
cated. "This," said the Chinese Esculapius, "by causing a 
violent heaving of the chest, will force back any rib that may 
have been bent inwards." The wound in the head not being 
deep, he healed it by stuffing it with burnt cotton. He then 
ordered that I should continue to walk much, supported by two 
persons; that I should not sit long, nor be allowed to sleep 
before ten o'clock at night, at which time, and not before, I 
should take a little hifan, that is, thin rice soup. This conti- 
nued walking caused me to faint several times; but this had 
been foreseen by the surgeon, who had warned me uot to be 
alarmed. He assured me that these walks in the open air, while 
fasting, would prevent the blood from settling on the chest, 
where it might corrupt. These remedies were barbarous and 
excruciating ; but I am bound in truth to confess that in seven 
days I was so completely restored as to be able to resume my 
journey into Tartary. — Father Ripa's Residence at the Court of 
Peking, in Murray's Home and Colonial Library. 



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[February 22 



LOCOMOTION OF ANIMALS.— No. XIII. 

Swimming. — There are countless myriads of animals 
which transmit themselves from place to place by 
swimming in liquids. But before entering into any of 
the details of the various organs with which animals 
are furnished and adapted for swimming, or the man- 
ner in which they are employed, it will be necessary 
to say a few words on the mechanical effects of bodies 
plunged in water, with respect to their specific gravities. 

By the term density we understand the closeness or 
vicinity of the particles of which the body under con- 
sideration is composed ; but mechanically it is used 
as a term of comparison, expressing the proportion of 
equal molecules, or of the quantity of matter in one 
body, to the number of equal molecules in the same 
bulk in another body: density, therefore, varies as 
the quantity of matter directly, and the magnitude of 
the body inversely. The specific gravity of any Bolid or 
fluid body is the absolute weight of a certain volume 
of the solid or fluid, which volume is assumed as the 
unit of bulk for measuring the specific gravities of 
all bodies. Density and specific gravity, therefore, 
appear to express the same thing under different 
aspects: the former being limited to the greater or 
less vicinity of the particles ; the latter to the greater 
or less weight in a given volume. As it is often neces- 
sary to have recourse to these terms, the reader should 
clearly understand their import at the outset of this 
inquiry. 

When an animal, or any solid body whatever, is 
plunged into a fluid, it will lose as much of its weight, 
that is, so much of it will be counteracted, as is equal 
to the weight of the fluid it displaces, and if its spe- 
cific gravity be greater tha/i that of the fluid, it will 
sink ; if less, it will rise to the surface, and float there ; 
but if the specific gravities of the solid and fluid be 
equal, the body will rest in any part wherever it is 
placed. From what has been said, we can easily know 
when the density and specific gravity of any solid are 
greater than that of a fluid, such as water, by plunging 
the solid in the liquid ; if, for instance, it swims in 
water, like a cork, we know its specific gravity is less 
than that of the water ; but if it sinks like a stone, 
then we conclude that its density and specific gravity 
are greater than that of the water. We hope enough 
has now been said to enable the reader to comprehend 
what is meant by the terms density and specific gra- 
vity, and under what circumstances any solid body, 
when left to itself in a fluid, will either float, sink, or 
remain at rest. On further investigation it will be 
found that some animals are lighter than water, and can 
float on its surface without muscular exertion ; others 
are much heavier, and either remain at the bottoms of 
rivers and seas, or raise themselves by muscular action ; 
whilst a third group are of the same gravity as water, 
and can remain stationary at any depth at pleasure : 
in this case, the force of the water in driving the 
animal upwards is just equal to the force of the earth's 
gravity in drawing it downwards. Many animals have 
the power of varying the specific gravity of the body, 
which they can by this means cause either to sink, re- 
main stationary, or float on the surface of the water. 

When we take a view of the variety of forms pre- 
sented by the locomotive organs of swimming animals, 
it must be apparent that they perform their move- 
ments very differently. All those land animals which 
constantly breathe the air, especially man and the 
higher orders, must float on the surface of the water 
in swimming; they die of suffocation when water 
chokes up the air-tubes of the lungs, which constitutes 
drowning. Of all animals, there is perhaps none so help- 
less in water, without training, as man ; and notwith- 
standing his vast superiority in other respects to other 



air-breathing animals, he is inferior to them in the em- 
ployment ofthe locomotive organs for the purposes of 
swimming. Indeed, it is well known that by far the 
greater number of persons who are precipitated into deep 
water, if they cannot swim, are drowned. Let us now 
inquire into the cause. In the first place, the specific 
gravity of man is very nearly equal to that of water. 
It is commonly lighter than* water when the chest is 
filled, and often heavier when the chest is emptied of 
air ; but the open end df the respiratory tube, that is, 
the mouth, or the nostrils at least, must be kept above 
water in order to breathe. In many of the lower 
animals, the specific gravity and the length of the 
neck are such as to enable them to keep the mouth 
or nostrils far above the surface df the water ; but in 
man the weight of the head, and the greater specific 
gravity of the body, even when the chest is filled with 
air, render him barely able to keep his mouth above 
the surface of the water, when all the rest of the body 
is below its surface. Still, if a person who cannot 
swim had sufficient presence of mind to inflate the 
chest, and prevent the expulsion bf a large portion of 
air on falling into deep water, he Would not ultimately 
sink until exhausted, if the limbs were kept motion- 
less ; but the alarm consequent upon a sudden and un- 
expected immersion, added to the pressure of the water 
upon the chest, causes the individual not only to 
expire the air in the lungs, which, as we have seen, 
should be retained, but also to make use of his limbs 
in an improper manner. He is involuntarily prone to 
throw up his arms, as if to seise some object above his 
head, and this creates an impulse which tends to force 
him still farther in the opposite direction, that is, flown- 
wards, and his struggles, being misdirected, generally 
tend also to sink him. 

The cause of this misapplication of the limbs by 
man, when immersed in water, is owing to the totally 
different mode in which they are used in walking and 
running on land, to that in which they should be ex- 
ercised in water, as we shall now proceed to demon- 
strate. 

Man. — In preparing to swim, the limbs should be 
arranged in such a manner, that they can be made to 
act favourably as soon as the body is resting, un- 
supported by other media, in the water. 

In order to propel the body there must be some 
movement of the limbs ; and it is by the flexion and 
adduction of the arms, and by the extension and ad- 
duction of the legs, that the process of swimming 
is performed, which movements must be produced 
rhythmically. Suppose a person standing up to his 
breast in water and about to strike off in swimming ; 
the hands are placed close to each other with the palms 





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undermost near the breast, the body is thrown forward 
in -the water, the hands are thrust out, and when the 
arms are fully extended as in Fig. 1, they diverge hori- 
zontally (the backs of the hands being turned towards 
each other), describing curves until they are brought 
round under the armpits, and again extended. It 
should be observed that the arms must always be kept 
in advance of a line passing through the axes of the 
shoulder-joints. 

Let us now advert to the action of the legs. Whilst 
the arms are describing their curves the legs are 
drawn forwards under the body, the knees being sepa- 
rated as much as possible, and the toes turned out- 
wards as in Fig. 2, and whilst the arms are regaining 



Fig. 2. 




their extended position the legs are extended backwards 
and outwards with a moderate degree of velocity, the 
soles of the feet being turned outwards, and are then 
brought together again, simultaneously with the arms, 
into the attitude shown in Fig. 1.* 

It will be observed that the arms and legs have each 
four distinct kinds of motion, namely, extension, ab- 
duction, adduction, and flexion, but the effects of these 
motions are different. The extension of the arms re- 
tards the motion of the body, whilst that of the legs 
accelerates it : the abduction of the arms accelerates, 
and of the legs slightly retards; the adduction of the 
arms slightly retards, and of the legs accelerates ; and 
the flexion of both arms and legs retards. The simul- 
taneous performance of these motions is exhibited in 
the following tabular form : — 



Arms. 
Abduction . 
Adduction 1 
Flexion . J * 
Extension . 



Leg.. 
. Flexion 

(Extension 
Abduction 
Adduction 



It is upon the rhythm with which these periodic 
movements are performed that the success of swim- 
ming depends, the whole being seen in outline in 
Figs. 1 and 2. 

We may also observe, that when the arms are ab- 
ducted, or drawn outwards and backwards, the legs are 
drawn forwards ; and when the arms are flexed and 
brought together, the legs are extended outwards; 
and lastly, when the arms are thrust forwards, the legs 
are brought close together ; so that whilst the force of 
the arms is positive, that of the legs is negative, and 
vice vena: but it is evident that the effective forces 
in swimming preponderate, or the body would either 
remain stationary or move backwards, and this results 
from the shape of the limbs and the manner in which 
they can be made to act. 

From what has been said, we may easily perceive 
how differently the limbs act in swimming from what 
they do in walking, and that the arms and legs inter- 
change their effective strokes alternately. These 

* These figures are reduced from the elementary course of 
Gymnastic Exercises by Captain Clias. 



movements are not difficult to perform, but it requires 
some attention and practice in order to accomplish 
them with precision. Indeed they may be practised 
out of water, and sufficient habit be obtained to know 
how to act if by chance a person were suddenly im 
mersed and in danger of being drowned. But it should 
also never be forgotten that almost all persons will 
float, if the chest be kept well filled whilst immersed 
in the water. It however requires great fortitude and 
self-possession to keep the limbs quiet and under 
water, and at the same time to stop the inspiratory 
movement until the mouth rises above the surface of 
the water. 

Swimming on the back is usually effected by means of 
the legs alone. The attitude preparatory to this move- 
ment is seen in Fig. 3. The head is bent backwards 

Fig. 3. 




so far that the water may cover the forehead, and reach 
to the level of the eyes ; the chest is elevated, and the 
hands placed on the hips ; the motions of the legs are 
indicated by the dotted lines in Fig. 4, and are the 
same as those of the legs in swimming on the breast. 
We may here state that any one who can swim on his 
breast will experience no more difficulty in turning 
himself round on his back in the water than in turning 
himself in his bed. 

Some persons can accomplish swimming on the side, 
and others on the back, without using the legs ; and 




Figs. 6, 7, a 




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many other feats, such as with the arms acting in dif- 
ferent directions as seen in Fig. 5. and again with one 
hand alone. In diving, two methods are recom- 
mended : one by leaping into the water with the feet 
downwards, the other head foremost; the former is 
most desirable in shallow water, the latter when the 
head is subject to giddiness and fulness of blood. 

Figs. 6 and 7 show the attitude preparatory to 
plunging into the water, and Fig. 8 the position of the 
limbs in diving to the bottom of the river. 

The position of greatest ease in the water is floating. 
The body lies on the back, with the face only above 
the water; the limbs are perfectly quiescent, and ex- 
tended as in Fig. 9. This state can only be maintained 
when the specific gravity of the body is less than that 
of the water. 

Fig. 9. 




Sea-water, being heavier than that of rivers, is best 
calculated to support a person in swimming, and those 
who are specifically heavier than river-water may be 
sustained in a floating position in sea-water. It may be 
observed that man being so nearly of the same specific 
gravity as water, and air being nearly one thousand 
times lighter, that a few cubic inches of air in a bag are 
sufficient to keep one who cannot swim permanently at 
its surface ; or a few pounds of cork fastened to the body 
will accomplish the same object : and it is astonishing 
that, notwithstanding the great number of persons who 
are annually drowned in the Thames alone, no means 
are adopted to provide some such simple method for 
sustaining the body in water by boatmen ; and still 
more that we hear of watermen being frequently 
drowned in consequence of not having learned to swim. 
Swimming ought to form a part of our physical educa- 
tion ; all our youth of both sexes may do so with advan- 
tage, for the purpose of cleanliness and to increase their 
health and strength, as well as to provide a safeguard 
against subsequent accidents. The ancients placed a 
high value on the art of swimming. Cato taught 
his son to traverse the most rapid and dangerous 
gulfs ;* the Greeks and Romans attached great im- 
portance to it. Julius Caesar crossed rivers by swim- 
ming at the head of his legion. It is said that Charle- 
magne was one of the best swimmers of his day. It 
is also well known that Lord Byron swam across the 
Hellespont several times ; and Mr. Smith, an English 
officer, swam across the Lake of Geneva from Morges 
to Amphion and back without stopping, being a dis- 
tance of seven miles and a half. The Caribs swim 
with the ease of fishes, the women as well as the men. 
If a canoe overturns, which is a thing of frequent oc- 
currence, their being drowned is never heard of ; on 
these occasions the children may be seen swimming 
about their mother like so many little fishes, and the 
mothers are capable of supporting themselves in the 
water with their children at their breasts, whilst the 
men are putting the boat to rights. These examples 
teach us how far safety might be acquired and how 
many hundreds of lives might be saved if the art of 
swimming were taught in our schools. 



SUPPLY OF WATER IN AMERICAN TOWNS. 

The United States being comparatively a new country, 
we may naturally expect to find that the modern con- 
trivances and improvements introduced in other coun- 
tries are more or less adopted there. It will be 
* Plutarch's Life of Cato. 



interesting to see how far tbey bear analogy with us 
in the important matter of the supply of water to their 
large towns. 

From Mr. Stevenson's work on the Civil Engineer- 
ing of North America, we learn that there are two 
general modes of ensuring this supply ; and. since rtie 
publication of that work, a grand undertaking called 
the Croton Aqueduct has introduced a third method. 
These three methods are, 1st. Collecting in reservoirs 
the water of a river passing by or through the town. 
2nd. Digging wells into the watery strata beneath the 
surface of the ground. 3rd. Bringing water in arti- 
ficial channels from a great distance. It is known to 
every one who has given common attention to this sub- 
ject, that all these three methods are adopted in Eng- 
land, with modifications of plan more or less extensive, 
according to the circumstance. 

The largest water-works in America, of that class 
which derive the water from a river flowing on the 
spot, are at Philadelphia. The river Schuylkill flows 
past Philadelphia ; and, a short distance before it 
reaches the city, its waters are so diverted as to flow 
into or through the water-works established on one 
bank of the river. In the first place there is a dara 
thrown obliquely across the river from one shore to the 
other, excepting openings at the two ends. This dam 
is formed of solid timber frame-work, filled up with 
stones and rubble; it is sixteen hundred feet in length, 
and being formed where the water is twenty-five or 
thirty feet deep, its construction was a work of some 
difficulty. The regular flow of the water is checked 
by this dam, and a consequent stagnation occurs for six 
miles upwards ; but a channel for navigation is formed 
by a canal with locks at one end of the dam ; while a 
large body of water flows through the opening at the 
other end of the dam with sufficient force to turn 
powerful water-wheels. These wheels work pumps, 
whereby the river- water is pumped up into vast reser- 
voirs above ; so that the dam is formed only as a means 
to obtain power to turn the wheels. There are the 
means to direct the body of water either into the water- 
works, or by a sluice into the part of the river below the 
dam, at pleasure. 

The water acts upon eight very large wheels, the 
rotation of which works eight large pumps, and these 
pumps raise the river-water into the reservoirs. Each 
pump raises half a million gallons of water per day, 
and this vast body of water is forced by the pumps to 
a height of not less than ninety feet. The pipe through 
which the flow takes place is made of cast-iron, and is 
sixteen inches in diameter. The reservoirs provided 
for the collecting and storing of the water are placed 
at an elevation of about an hundred feet above the 
level of the river, and about fifty feet above the highest 
streets in Philadelphia ; they are four in number, and 
present altogether an area of six acres. The reservoirs 
are founded on an elevated rock, but the water is re- 
tained by means of artificial walls and embankments. 
These enclosures are of great strength, and the bottom 
of the reservoirs is well paved with cemented brick. 
The depth of water, when filled, is about twelve feet ; 
and the amount then contained is more than twenty 
millions of gallons. The use of having four reservoirs 
instead of one equal to them in area, is to facilitate the 
purification of the water; for the water, after being 
discharged from the force-pumps into one of them, 
passes through a filter into the second reservoir, then 
through another filter into the third, and similarly to 
the fourth ; so that it undergoes three nitrations before 
it enters the pipes which supply the town. 

The water is conveyed from the reservoirs, and dis- 
tributed through the town, by means of about a hun- 
dred miles of cast-iron pipe, beginning at two feet in 
diameter near the reservoirs, and being reduced to 



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twelve, six, and three inches, according to the streets 
through which they pass. The water flowing in this 
way from the reservoirs into the city, varies from about 
two to four millions of gallons per day, according to 
the season of the year, averaging more than three mil- 
lions. In 1836 this supply was distributed by means 
of private pipes to about seventeen thousand renters or 
tenants, and oy public pumps to about three thousand 
more, making twenty thousand families supplied with 
water from the works. For this quantity the inhabit- 
ants paid a water-rate amounting to rather above 
twenty thousand pounds, or about a guinea per house 
per year, poor and rich together. 

The town of Richmond, in Virginia, is supplied with 
water from the James river, on a principle analogous 
to that here explained, but on a smaller scale. The 
water is raised by means of water-wheels to so great a 
height as a hundred and sixty feet above the level of 
the river, into two large reservoirs, and is thence dis- 
tributed through the town in iron pipes. 

Pittsburgh, on the Ohio, is similarly supplied ; the 
water being raised from the river to a height of about 
a hundred feet and thence distributed. Montreal is in 
like manner supplied from the river St. Lawrence. 
Cincinnati, in the State of Ohio, until within a few 
years was supplied with the water of the Ohio, by hav- 
ing it pumped up by horse-power to reservoirs at a 
height of a hundred and sixty feet; but as the tanks 
were only large enough to supply a wooden main-pipe 
three or four inches in diameter, the increase in tne 
number of inhabitants rendered a change of plan 
nee cssary ; steam-power was substituted for horse- 
power to raise the water, and iron pipes of large dia- 
meter replaced those of smaller size for the mains. 

Many towns are so situated that they have not a 
fres-h-water river passing through or in immediate 
contiguity ; and in such cases other modes of supply 
are sought. The town of Boston, for example, is al- 
most entirely surrounded by the sea, and hence the in- 
habitants are supplied from wells. In 1835 there were 
said to be more than two thousand seven hundred wells 
in Boston, of which thirty-three were Artesian ; only 
seven, however, of the whole number yielded soft 
water, the mineral strata through which it flowed 
having given a hard quality to the water of all the 
other wells. The digging of some of these Boston 
wells was attended with effects which illustrate in an 
instructive manner the elastic force of the water some- 
times concealed and accumulated beneath the surface 
of the ground. Mr. Stevenson quotes the following 
account of one of these from Dr. Lathrop : — * A few 
years before, an attempt was made to dig a well a few 
rods to the east near the sea. Having dug about sixty 
feet in a body of clay without finding water, prepara- 
tion was made in the usual way for boring ; and, after 
passing about forty feet in the same body of clay, the 
augur was impeded by stone. A few strokes with a 
drill broke through the slate covering, and the water 
gushed out with such rapidity and force that the work- 
men with difficulty were saved from death. The water 
rose to the top of the well, and ran over for some time. 
The force was such as to bring up a large quantity of 
fine sand, and all their labour was lost. 1 * 

New York, beyond all the cities in America, affords 
the most interesting features in respect to the supply 
of water. Within the last few years its inhabitants 
have planned and carried out a project partaking much 
of the grandeur and magnitude of the ancient aque- 
ducts ; and if the expectations of the engineer should 
prove to be permanently realized, the system will re- 
main as a creditable monument to the skill and com- 
mercial liberality of the state. 

To understand the nature of these works, it will be 
necessary to glance at the topographical position of the 



city of New York. The river Hudson, after flowing 
nearly due south for many miles, falls into the At- 
lantic in a bay or recess ; and close to its mouth are 
three islands — Long Island, Staten Island, and Man- 
hattan Island. The city of New York is situated on 
the last named of these three ; so that it is cut off by 
salt water from the main-land and from both the other 
islands. This local position has had a good deal to do 
with the arrangements for the supply of water. The 
inhabitants have hence been led to obtain a supply by 
means of wells, which have been sunk in different 
parts of the city, and the water was raised from 
them by steam-power into elevated reservoirs, from 
whence pipes conveyed it to the various streets. Some 
belonged to a water-company, and some to the corpo- 
ration. One of these, after descending rather more 
than a hundred feet, had three lateral channels branch- 
ing from it, for the purpose of collecting water from 
different directions; and the well, thus augmented, 
yielded twenty thousand gallons per day. Some of the 
wells, by a more extensive system of tnese lateral gal- 
leries or channels, yielded more than a hundred thou- 
sand gallons per day. 

But although the 'wells, simply as such, yielded 
largely, yet the supply gradually became more and 
inadequate to the wants of a largely increasing popu- 
lation ; and the attention of the corporation has been 
long directed to the means of ensuring a better sup- 
ply. Other towns, whether deficient or not in rivers 
1>assing through them, have had a supply ensured by 
aying down pipes from a spring situated on a hilly 
spot at some distance. Thus Albany, a larpe town on 
the Hudson, and the second in importance in the state 
of New York, is principally supplied with water pro- 
cured in the high ground in the neighbourhood, and 
conveyed in a six-inch pipe for a distance of about 
three miles to a reservoir near the town. Troy, another 
town on the Hudson, hfcer up than Albany, is sup- 
plied by similar means °^fere is high ground in the 
neighbourhood, containing%ood water ; and this water 
is conveyed into a reservoir capable of holding two 
million gallons, elevated about seventy feet above tlie 
level of the streets, and distant about a third of a mile 
from the town ; and from this reservoir the water is 
conveyed through a twelve-inch pipe to the streets of 
the town. 

But this source is denied to the inhabitants of New 
York ; and therefore, having no high ground near the 
city to furnish a supply, having no fresh-water river at 
hand to supply water-works, and having an insuffi- 
ciency of wells to ensure a supply, they have been led 
to exercise their ingenuity in another way. 

[To be continued.] 



ADULTERATION OF ARTICLES OF 
CONSUMPTION. 

The selling of unwholesome provisions, as meat or fish, is 
punishable under most local acts ; and is also an offence at 
common law. In Paris, malpractices connected with the 
adulteration of food are investigated by the Conseil dc Salu- 
brite", acting under the authority of the prefect of police. In 
this country, where the interests of the revenue are concerned, 
strict regulations have been resorted to in order to prevent 
adulteration. It is not, however, heavy customs or Excise- 
duties alone which encourage adulteration, for the difference 
in price between the genuine and the spurious ingredient, when 
both are free from taxation, leads to the practice of adultera- 
tion. The following is an abstract of the law respecting the 
adulteration of some of the principal articles of revenue : — 

Tobacco-manufacturers are liable to a penalty of 200/. for 
having in their possession sugar, treacle, molasses, honey, 
commmgs or roots of malt, ground or unground roasted grain, 
ground or unground chicory, lime, timbre, ochre, or other 
earths, sea-weed, ground or powdered wood, moss or weeds 



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or any leaves, or any herbs or plants (not being tobacco leaves 
or plants), respectively, or any substance or material, syrup, 
liquid, or preparation, matter, or thing, to be used or capable 
of being used as a substitute for, or to increase the weignt of, 
tobacco or snuff (5 & 6 Vict c. 93, § 8). Any person engaged 
in any way in the preparation of articles to imitate or resemble 
tobacco or snuff, or who shall sell or deliver such articles to 
any tobacco-manufacturer, is also liable to a penalty of 200/. 
(§ 8). The penalty for adulterating tobacco or snyn is 300/. 
§ 1); and for having such tobacco or snuff in possession, 200/. 
(§ 3). The Excise-survey on tobacco-manufecturers, abolished 
by 3 & 4 Vict. c. 18, has been re-established in consequence 
of the extent to which adulteration was carried. 

The ingredients used in the adulteration of heer are enume- 
rated in the following list of articles which brewers or dealers 
and retailers in ale and beer are prohibited from having in 
their possession under a penalty of 200/. (56 Geo. III. c 58, 
§ 2). These articles are — molasses, .honey, liquorice, vitriol, 
quassia, cocculus Indicus, grains of Paradise, Guinea pepper, 
and opium ; and preparations from these articles are also pro- 
hibited. They are used either as substitutes for hops or to give 
a colour to the liquor in imitation of that which it would re- 
ceive from the use of genuine ingredients. By § 3 of the same 
act a penalty of 500/. is imposed upon any chemist, druggist, 
or other person, who shall sell the articles mentioned in § 2 to 
any brewer or dealer in beer. The penalties against dealers 
in beer in the above act are extended to beer-retailers under 
1 Wm. IV. c. 64, and 4 & 5 Wm. IV. c. 85, which acts also 
contain special provisions against adulteration applicable to 
this particular class of dealers ; and the licence also prohibits 
the sale of ale, beer, and porter, made otherwise than from 
malt and hops ; or adulterated with drugs ; or fraudulently 
diluted, adulterated, or deteriorated. 

Tea, another important article of revenue, is protected from 
adulteration by several statutes. The act 1 1 Geo. I. c. 30, 
§ 5, renders a tea-dealer liable to a penalty of 100/. who shall 
counterfeit, adulterate, alter, fabricate, or manufacture any 
tea, or shall mix with tea any leaves other than leaves of tea 
(§ 5). Under 4 Geo. IV. c. 14, tea-dealers who dye, fabri- 
cate, or manufacture any 6loe-leaves, liquorice-leaves, or the 
leaves of tea that have been used, or any other leaves in imi- 
tation of tea j or shall use terra japonica, sugar, molasses, clay, 
logwood, or other ingredients, to colour or dye such leaves ; 
or shall sell or have in their possession such adulterated tea, 
are liable to a penalty of 10/. for every pound of such adulte- 
rated tea found in their possession (§11). The 17 Geo. III. 
c. 29, also prohibits adulteration of tea (§ 1). 

The adulteration of coffee and cocoa is punished with 
heavy penalties under 43 Geo. III. c 1 29. Any person who 
manufactures, or has in his possession, or who shall sell, burnt, 
scorched, or roasted peas, beans, grains, or other grain, or 
vegetable substance prepared as substitutes for coffee or cocoa, 
is liable to a penalty of 100/. (§ 5). The object of § 9 of 1 i 
Geo IV. c 30, is similar. Chicory has been very extensively 
used in the adulteration of coffee in this country. This root, 
which possesses a bitter and aromatic flavour, came into use 
on the Continent in consequence of Bonaparte's decrees exclud- 
ing colonial produce. Coffee with whicn a fourth or a fifth 
part of chicory has been mixed, is by some persons preferred 
as a beverage to coffee alone ; but in England it is used to 
adulterate coffee in the proportion of one half. The Excise 
has for some time permitted the mixture of chicory with coffee. 
In 1832 a duty was laid on chicory, and this duty has been in- 
creased : chicory itself is also adulterated. Besides the quan- 
tity imported, chicory is also grown in England, and to pre- 
vent fraud it will be necessary to place the cultivation under 
some restriction, or perhaps, as in the case of tobacco, to pro- 
hibit the growth of it altogether. 

The manufacturer, possessor, or seller of adulterated pepper 
is liable to a penalty of 100/. (59 Geo. III. c. 53, § 22). The 
act 9 Geo. IV. c. 44, § 4, extends thi6 provision to Ireland. 

In the important article of bread there are prohibitions 
against adulteration, though they are probably of very little 
practical importance. The act 6 & 7 Wm. 1 V. c. 37, which 
repealed the several acts then in force relating to bread sold 
beyond the city and liberties of London, and ten miles of the 
Royal Exchange, was also intended to prevent the adultera- 
tion of meal, flour, and bread beyond these limits. No other 
ingredient is to be used in making bread for sale except flour 
or meal of wheat, barley, rye, oats, buckwheat, Indian corn, 
peas, beans, rice or potatoes, mixed with common salt, pure 



water, eggs, milk, barm, leaven, potato or other yeast, in such 
proportions as the bakers think fit (§ 2). Adulterating bread, 
by mixing other ingredients than those mentioned above, is 
punishable by a fine of not less than 5/. nor above 10/., or im- 
prisonment for a period not exceeding six months ; and the 
names of the offenders are to be published in a local news- 
paper (§ 8). Adulterating corn, meal, or flour, or selling floor 
of one sort of corn as flour of another sort, subjects the offender 
to a penalty not exceeding 20/. and not less than 5/. (§ 9). 
The premises of bakers may be searched, and if ingredients 
for adulterating meal or flour be found, the penalty for the 
first offence is 10/. and not less than 40*.; for the second 
offence 5/., and for every subsequent offence 10/.; and the 
names of offenders are to be published in the newspapers 
(§ 12). There are penalties for obstructing search (§ ISJ. 
Any miller, mealman, or baker acting as a justice under this 
statute incurs a penalty of 100/. (§ 15). 

The above act did not apply to Ireland, where the baking 
trade was regulated by an act (2 Wm. IV. c. 31), the first 
clause of which, relating to the ingredients to be used, vas 
similar to the English act just quoted. In 1838 another act 
was passed (1 Vict c. 28), which repealed all former acts re- 
lating to the sale of bread in Ireland. The preamble recited 
that the act 6 & 7 Wm. IV. c 37, had been found beneficial in 
Great Britain; and the clauses respecting adulteration are 
similar to the English act 

The several acts for regulating the making of bread -within 
ten miles of the Royal Exchange (which district is excluded 
from the operation of 6 & 7 Wm. IV.) were consolidated by 
the act 3 Geo. IV. c. 106. Under this act any baker who uses 
alum, or any other unwholesome ingredient, is liable to the 
penalties mentioned in § 12 of 6 & 7 Wm. IV. c. 87. Any 
ingredient or mixture found within the house, mill, stall, shop, 
&c. of any miller, mealman, or baker, and which shall appear 
to have been placed there for the purpose of adulteration, ren- 
ders him liable to similar penalties. 

Other articles besides those which have been mentioned are 
adulterated to a great extent, and there Ss scarcely an article, 
from arrow-root to guano, which escapes ; but perhaps the 
remedy for the evil is not unwisely left to the people them- 
selves, who probably are less likely to be imposed upon when 
depending on the exercise of their own discrimination, than 
if a commission of public functionaries were appointed, whose 
duty should consist in investigating and punishing persons 
guilty of adulteration. The interference of the government in 
this country with the practice of adulteration, except in the 
case of bread and drugs, has evidently had no other object 
than the improvement of the revenue. 

Adulteration and the deceitful making up of commodities 
appear to have frequently attracted the attention of the legis- 
lature in the sixteenth century, and several acts were passed 
for restraining offences of this nature. The act 28 Eiix. c. 8, 
prohibits under penalties the practice of mixing bees'-wax with 
rosin, tallow, turpentine, or other spurious ingredient The 
following acts have reference chiefly to frauds in the making 
up of various manufactured products : — 3 Hen. VIII. c. 6 ; 
23 Hen. VIII. c. 17; 1 Eliz. c. 12; 3&4 Edw. VI. c 2 ; 
5 & 6 Edw. VI. c 6 ; 5 & 6 Edw. VI. c. 23.— From fke Sup- 
plement to the Penny Cyclopctdh. 

Phytical Effect* of Training.— The state of health, or c con- 
dition,' as it is termed, into which a man may be brought by train- 
ing is often extraordinary. This training, it must be understood, 
consists iu nothing more than regular exercise and living. The 
most salubrious and retired country places are usually chosen, 
and there the man, under the guidance of an experienced trainer, 
performs his systematic duties. He retires early to his bed, which 
is a mattress/with sufficient covering to ensure a suitable warmth, 
without encouraging unnecessary j>erspiration. He rises betimes 
in the morning, and after a general washing and rubbing, par- 
takes of a slight repast, and commences his day's work by a 
quick walk of a few miles. He then returns home, and eats 
with what appetite he can. After a short rest, he is again ex- 
ercised until his next meal-time, and so on throughout the day. 
His diet is chiefly confined to the lean of underdone l*ef and 
mutton, fowl, and stale bread. He takes two or three glasses of 
sherry, with, perhaps, a little old ale daily. The distance he is 
made to walk and run, every day, varies from ten to forty miles. 
He begins with what he is conveniently able to bear, and in- 
creases his exertions in p ro p or ti on to his increasing strength.— - 
Medical Timet. 



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THE BRITISH V A LH ALL A— No. II. 



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No. 82b. Vol. XIV.-L 

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THE PENNY MAGAZINE. 



[February, 1845. 



of St. Peter and St. Paul in the bishopric of Durham, 
near the mouth of the river Tyne. At seven years of 
age he was taken iuto the monastery of St. Peter at 
Jarrow to be educated for a priest After twelve years 
of diligent study he took deacon's orders, and eleven 
years after that period, or when he was in his thirtieth 
year, he was ordained a priest. His fame now reached 
Rome, and he was invited by Pope Sergius to repair 
to that city in order to assist in the promulgation of 
certain points of ecclesiastical discipline. But Bede, 
loving study better than travel, and being strongly 
attached to nis own cell and quiet monastery, declined 
the invitation, and remained at Jarrow to make him- 
self master of all the learning which was then acces- 
sible, and to write the ecclesiastical history of the 
English nation. The materials within his reach con- 
sisted of a few chronicles, and a few annals preserved 
in different religious houses ; but he had also access 
to living prelates and other churchmen, some of whom 
had been principal actors in a part of the events and 
scenes he had to describe, while others inherited from 
their own fathers all the traditionary lore relating to 
the conversion of the Anglo-Saxon people, and more 
particularly of that part of the nation which was set- 
tled to the north of the 1 1 umber. Hence we find that 
Bede's narrative is fullest when he treats of the intro- 
duction and establishment of Christianity in Northum- 
bria. He lived so near to the time that his history has 
much of the charm of a contemporary narrative. The 
date of his birth was within eighty years after the first 
landing of August in, and within half a century of the 
date assigned to the conversion of the Northumbrian 
king Edwin. He must have known, in his youth, per- 
sons who were living at the time of that conversion, 
and many that were alive when King Oswald revived 
the Christian faith and brought the monks from Iona 
to Lindisfarne. He published his ecclesiastical history 
(if we may apply the term publication to the very 
limited means which then existed of making a literary 
work known) about the year 734 ; but previously to 
this he had written and put forth many other books 
and treatises. His whole life indeed appears to have 
been absorbed by his literary labours. We would 
paint the monk in his solitary cell overlooking the 
Tyne and the dark and stormy ocean ; or let that lat- 
ticed window be closed and take him by night, seated 
at a broad table, surrounded by his antique books and 
parchments, lighted by a cresset-lamp of the oldest 
monastic form, or by a torch or thick candle such as 
King Alfred used after him, and holding in his honest 
right hand the pen which is writing imperishable 
words. 

Bede's health gave way under his incessant labour ; 
but sickness and pain and the depressing influence of 
a confirmed asthma could not stop his pen. He died 
working. And here we have another picture for our 
Valhalla. He was most anxious to finish two of his 
incomplete works, the one being a translation of 
St. John's Gospel into the Saxon language. Stretched 
on his pallet and unable to write with his own hand, 
he employed Wilberch, a young monk of the house, 
to write under bis dictation. While thus occupied 
he grew worse and very weak. The young monk, 
observing this, said — "There remains now only 
one chapter to do; but it seems difficult to you to 
speak." The dying man answered — '* It is easy ; take 
your pen, dip it in the ink, and write as fast as you 
can." About nine o'clock Bede sent for some of his 
brethren to divide among them a little incense and 
a few other things of small value which he kept in a 
chest in his cell The young man Wilberch then said 
— •• Master, there is now but one sentence wanting." 
" Write on," said Bede, " and write fast !" The young 
monk did his best, and soon said— 1 * Now, master, it 



is finished."-— Bede replied—" Thou nast said the truth 
—consummaiwn e$t ! So take up my head, for I would 
sit opposite to the place where I have been wont to 
pray." Being seated according to his desire upon the 
floor of his cell, he said— "Glory be to the Father, 
and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost"— and he 
breathed his last breath with the last of these words. 
This, according to the most generally received opinion, 
happened on the 26th day of May in the year 735, 
when he was in the sixtieth year of his age. The 
monks buried his body in the church of his own mo- 
nastery at Jarrow : but long after his death his bones 
were removed to Durham Cathedral and placed in the 
same coffin or chest with those of St. Cuthbert. The 
church of Rome canonized him and conferred on him 
the name of " The Venerable." The name, at least, 
has been ratified by all succeeding ages. 

Bede's ecclesiastical history contains a long series 
of striking and picturesque narratives proper for the 
historical painter. 

The first grandly picturesque story is familiar to all, 
and has often been painted— though never yet as it 
ought to be painted. Gregory, a Roman monk, of a 
noble family which traced its origin from the time of 
the imperial Caesars, when Rome was mistress of the 
world, goes one day into the slave-market, which is 
situated at the end of the ancient Forum. Here he is 
struck by the sight of some young slaves from Britain, 
who are publicly exposed for sale, even like the cattle 
that are selling in another part of the Forum or great 
market-place. The children have bright complexions 
and fair long hair ; their forms are beautiful, the inno- 
cence of their look is most touching. Gregory eagerly 
asks from what distant country they come, and being 
told that they are Angles the pious father says they 
would be Angels if they were but Christians. He 
throws back his cow] and stands looking at them, and 
the children look at him, while some slave-dealers 
close at hand are chaffering with their customers, or 
inviting purchasers by extolling the fine proportions 
and the beauty of the young Northern slaves. There 
is contrast, there is action, there is everything to make 
a grand and moving picture. The locality and its 
accessories are sublime. The Capitol of ancient Rome 
and the Tarpeian Rock are in full sight ; the Coliseum 
shows its lofty walls at a short distance ; the magnifi- 
cent columns of the Temple of Jupiter Stator come 
within the picture, and there are otner ruins of a sub- 
lime character. It is but the end of the sixth century, 
and many ancient buildings are comparatively perfect 
now, though destined to disappear in the course of 
succeeding centuries, and to leave it matter of doubt 
and speculation as to where stood the Temple of Con- 
cord, where the Temple of the Penates or Household 
Gods, where the Temple of Victory, where the arches 
of Tiberius and Severus, and where the other temples, 
arches, and columns that are known to have crowded 
the Forum and the spots surrounding it. As things 
are, we see the decay of Paganism and the establish- 
ment of Christianity upon its ruins. The temples, 
which are entire, are converted into churches : tnere 
is a crucifix on the highest part of the Capitol ; there 
is a procession of monks passing along the edge of 
the Tarpeian Rock ; the firm set columns erected to 
that Jupiter whose faith could not stand are crowned 
with crosses— the cross of Christ shows itself every- 
where, on the summits of temples, over the crowns of 
triumphal arches, and upon all of the seven hills that 
are in sight The painter cannot paint all this, but 
he can choose from among these grand and touching 
objects, and some image of the whole ought to be in 
his mind ere he begins to work. Gregory quits the 
slave-market solemnly musing upon the means of car- 
rying the knowledge of divine truth to the distant and 



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savage land which gave birth to these fair children. 
Shortly after he determines to be himself the missionary 
and apostle of the Anglo-Saxons. He even sets off on 
the journey ; but his friends, thinking that he is going 
to a certain death among barbarians, induce the pope 
to command his return. A few years pass away, and 
the monk Gregory becomes Pope Gregory, and head 
of the Christian world, although he will only style 
himself Servus Servorum Domini, or Servant of the 
Servants of the Lord. Men call him "The Great," 
and great is he in his humility and devotion and gene- 
rosity of soul. He lives in as simple a style as 
when he was a poor monk ; he is averse to persecu- 
tion, holding that heretics and even Jews are to 
be treated with lenity, and are to be converted not 
by persecution but by persuasion. The wealth which 
begins to flow in to tnc Roman See he employs in 
bettering the condition of the poor, in erecting cnurches 
and in sending out missionaries to reclaim the heathen. 
He cannot go himself to the land of those fair- 
haired children, but now he sends Augustin, prior of 
the convent of St. Andrews at Rome, and forty monks 
as missionaries to England. Augustin and his com- 
panions make the coast of Kent, and after many dan- 
fers, and fears, and misgivings— for the Anglo-Saxons 
ad been represented to them as the most stubborn and 
most ferocious of the human species—they land in 
the isle of Thanet. Ethelbert the King of Kent is 
a pagan and worshipper of Odin— one who believes 
that the pleasures of Heaven, or of some future state 
of existence, consist of fighting all day and feasting 
and drinking all night; but his beautiful wife Bertha, 
a native of some part of the country which we now 
call France, is a Christian, and has brought with her 
from her own country a few holy men who reprobate 
but are afraid of attacking the sanguinary Scan- 
dinavian faith and idolatry. " These timid priests have 
built or restored a little church outside the walls of 
Canterbury ; but it is overshadowed by a pagan tem- 
ple, wherein is the rude image not of a God of Peace, 
out of a God of War and destruction ; and the 
foreigners fear that their humble little church will 
soon be destroyed by the Pagan priests. But Augustin 
arrives, and invites King Ethelbert to hear the glad 
tidings of salvation, the mild voice of the Gospel. 
The priests of bloody Odin and of the murderous 
Thor apprehend conjuration and magic, and advise the 
king to meet the missionaries not under a roof but in 
the open air, where magic spells will be less dan- 
gerous in their operation. Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha 
by his side, goes forth to one of the pleasant Kentish 
hills commanding a view of the flowing ocean, which the 
monks have crossed : his warriors and his pagan priests 
stand round the king ; and there is a solemn expectant 
silence until the music of many mingled harmonious 
voices is heard, and Augustin and his forty companions 
are seen advancing in solemn processional order, sing- 
ing the psalms and anthems of Rome. The foremost 
monk in the procession carries a large silver crucifix. 
Another monk carries a banner on which is painted a 
picture of the Redeemer. The heart of Ethelbert is 
touched by the music and by the venerable, devout 
aspect of tnc strangers. By means of an interpreter, 
whose heart and soul are in the office, Augustin oriefly 
expounds to the king the nature of the Christian faith, 
and implores Ethelbert to receive the holiest and only 
true religion, and permit him to preach and teach it 
to his subjects. The king listens in rapt attention, 
never once taking his eyes from off the missionary ; 
the queen blesses the day and happy hour ; the priests 
of Odin seem perplexed and irritated ; but the stal- 
wart warriors leaning on their long, broad swords, or 
on their ponderous battle-axes, look for the most part 
as if they would inquire farther, and gladly hear the 



wonderful words of the stranger again. Here are no 
antique temples, or columns, or arches, no Capitol or 
Forum with their mighty remembrances, no Coliseum 
as at the Eternal City ; but there flows in sight the 
everlasting sea : these green hills of Kent are more 
beautiful than the seven hills of Rome, and there are 
woods and streams (woods which have been the temples 
of Druidism) near to the scene of the conference ; and 
there is bright sunlight upon the scene, and a glorious 
summer-sky overhead ; a sky not of one uniform un- 
spotted blue, like that of Italy, but having its variety 
of tints, and even a few fleecy clouds, and being ren- 
dered thereby several degrees more picturesque and 
poeticsl. The Saxon king is more than half-con- 
verted; but he thinks it needful to be cautious. He 
says he has no thought of forsaking the gods of his 
fathers; but since the purposes of the strangers are 
good, and their promises inviting, they shall be suffered 
to instruct his people; none shall raise the hand of 
violence against them, and they shall not know want, 
for the land is a land of plenty, and he, the King of 
Kent and Bretwalda of all the Saxon princes, will 
supply the monks with food and drink and lodging. 
Upon this Augustin and his companions fall again into 
order of procession, and direct their steps, solemn and 
slow, towards the neighbouring city of Canterbury, 
chaunting their anthems as they go. They reach the 
ancient city, and as they enter it in the midst of a 
wondering crowd, they sing with a holy and a cheerful 
note — " Hallelujah ! hallelujah ! may the wrath of the 
Lorfl be turned from this city and from this holy 
placer' 

" For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 

Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread, 
And blest the Silver Cross, which ye, instead 

Of martial banner, in procession bear; 

The Cross preceding Him who floats in air, 
The pictured Saviour! — By Augustine led, 
They come — and onward travel without dread, 

Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, 
Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free ! 
Rich conquest waits, them : the tempestuous sea 

Of ignorance that ran so rough and high, 
And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, 
These good men humble by a few bare words, 

And calm with fear of God's divinity.* 1 * 

The work of conversion proceeds rapidly and smoothly. 
The Italians find the poor Anglo-Saxons of Kent 
rather gentle and docile than ferocious ; many gladly 
renounce a creed of blood and hatred for a religion of 
peace and love ; the baptisms become numerous ; and 
at last, on the day of Pentecost, King Ethelbert himself 
yield 8 to the arguments of the missionaries and the 
entreaties of his wife, and is baptized. On the ensuing 
Christmas ten thousand of the people follow the 
example of the king. Pope Gregory is transported 
with joy when these tidings reach Rome ; he writes an 
exulting letter to Eulogius, patriarch of Alexandria, 
giving an account of the success of his missionaries 
" in the most remote parts of the world ;" and he forth- 
with appoints Augustin to be primate of all England ' 
as well as Archbishop of Canterbury. Such is the 
origin of our church as related by the venerable Bede. 

Pope Gregory soon sends more labourers to work in 
so promising a vineyard ; and every Italian monk or 
missionary is qualified to teach the uncivilized Saxons 
in matters temporal as well as spiritual, to instruct 
them in agriculture and in many useful arts. Melitus, 
Justus, the successful Paulinus, and many others, arrive 
from Rome, and they bring with them vesselg and 
vestments for the altar, copes, crucifixes, relics, and 
for the Archbishop Augustin a splendid pall. A great 
church, dedicated by the name of Christ-Church, 



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begins to raise its head within the walls of Canter- 
bury ; a spacious house is built close by for the ac- 
commodation of the monks; and from this spot the 
missionaries go forth into the wealds of Kent and to 
regions far beyond them to preach and teach. 

The progress of the faith in the more northern parts 
pf the island is for a long time slow and uncertain, and 
there are backslidings and relapses in the south ; but 
from the first day of the landing of Augustin the de- 
struction of the Scandinavian idolatry is secured. 
Within seven years a Christian church is erected in the 
city of London, upon the spot where the Romans had 
built a temple to Diana, and the church is dedicated to 
St. Paul, and shall never cease to be a Christian church 
and the centre of many churches dedicated to Christ 
and i he apostles and saints. There are many saints 
but few martyrs among our first missionaries— martyr- 
dom does not blend very much with our church his- 
tory until two or three centuries later, when the land 
is overrun by fierce Danes and Norwegians, who are 
fanatics in the faith of Odin, deaf to the gentle voice of 
the Gospel, and even blind to the miracles which are 
exhibited for their conversion. But not so are the 
Saxons with whom Gregory's missionaries have to 
deal. Even in the savage north we find but few mar- 
tyrs, albeit Penda, Edilfred, and a few other kings 
of North urn bria and of Mercia, set themselves against 
the promulgation of the Gospel, and carry on cruel 
wars against the converted states. 

The life of Edwin, under whom Christianity is in- 
troduced and established in the north, offers more than 
one noble picture. It is scarcely possible to separate 
the legendary and the miraculous from the true ; but 
the painter or the poet has nothing to do with any 
such analysis or separation; and we have already 
given the good grounds upon which such subjects are 
admissible into our Valhalla. Edwin in his youth is 
deprived of his kingdom of Deira by his neighbour 
Edilfred of Bernicia, who joins his states to his own, 
and thus establishes his rule over the whole of 
Northumbria. The dispossessed Edwin, who as yet 
is not converted to Christianity, wanders from court 
to court in a vain search after a peaceful asylum. The 
far-reaching arm of the Northumbrian tyrant strikes 
him wherever he goes, and even behind the ramparts 
of the Welsh mountains. At last the royal wanderer 
seeks shelter with King Redwald in East Anglia, and 
begins to hope that he has put himself out of the 
reach of Ed Hired ; but while Edwin is sitting on the 
hearth of King Redwald, a messenger arrives from his 
implacable foe, who has discovered his present retreat, 
and who threatens Redwald with war and destruction 
unless he immediately give up his guest. Redwald, 
who knows the extent of Ed ilf red's power to do 
mischief, is so terrified at this message, that he resolves 
to disre^aid the sacred laws of hospitality, and to give 
up Edwm to chains and death. But one of Edwin's 
faithful companions, of whom he has some few with 
him in the court of Redwald who never shrink from 
his adversity, discovers the iniquitous intention, and 
about the first hour of night comes to Edwin's cham- 
ber, and calling him forth, for bettor security, reveals 
to him his great danger, and offers him his sword and 
his aid to escape therefrom. Edwin, who has already 
run all over the island, and who now knows not 
whither to betake himself, thanks his kind friend, but 
declnres that he will fly no more— that he is weary of 
his life, and will fain die where he is. The friend de- 
parts ; and in this gloomy spirit of resignation Edwin 
sits down on a great stone outside the gate of King 
fledwald's palace, from which proceed sounds of joy 
and festivity, and flashes of light thrown out by the 
blading fire and the rude pine-torches. Thus the ex- 
pelled young King of Deira sits all alone with his face 



muffled in his mantle — sits upon that big, hard, cold 
stone, which is not harder and colder than the heart of 
the world to him : he has not so much as the attend- 
ance of a dog ; yet he once had one of the broadest 
kingdoms of the Saxon heptarchy, and was called King 
of Men. This world now seems to offer him nothing 
but a bloody grave ; and the creed in which he has 
been suckled, making no allowance for human weak- 
ness or for misfortune, has nothing but shame to offer 
to the man who does not die victorious, or at the least 
in battle. But lo ! about the dead of night the tall 
figure of a man, in dark vestments, is seen by the light 
of the waning moon. Neither by countenance nor by 
habit is this man known to the forlorn prince ; but 
Edwin sees that the countenance, though solemn, is 
benign and compassionate. The stranger speaks, and 
after salutation made, says, " Why, at this hour, when 
all others are at rest, dost thou alone so sadly sit waking 
on a cold stone ? " Edwin, who cannot readily believe 
that the world contains one that will comfort him, 
asks the stranger what his sitting within doors or 
without concerns him ? The stranger replies, with an 
unaltered sweetness of voice and countenance, u Think 
not that who thou art, or why sitting here upon the 
cold stone, or what danger hangs over thee, is to me 
unknown! But what wouldest thou promise to that 
man, who ever would befriend thee, ana lead thee out 
of these troubles, and persuade Redwald to continue 
thy friend instead of delivering thee up to thy foe 
Edilfred ? ** •' All that I am able to promise, or shall 
ever be able to do,** quoth Edwin. " And what," says 
the stranger, " what wouldest thou do if I should truly 
promise thee the destruction of thine enemies and the 
possession of thy kingdom, and a fame and power 
greater than hath been possessed by any English king 
that hath been before thee ? '* "I should not doubt,** 
quoth Edwin, " to be answerably grateful." A third 
time the mysterious midnight visitant propounds a 
prophetic question : — " And if he who procured thee 
such blessings should truly foretell to thee what is to 
come in a better world than this, and should give thee, 
for the security of thy life and fortunes, such counsels 
as none of thy father and kindred ever heard, wouldest 
thou follow them? And dost thou now promise to 
hearken to his counsel and follow it ? " The face of 
Edwin brightens, and he stands erect and elate, as he 
says that the man who conferred upon him such in- 
estimable benefits should evermore be his sole coun- 
sellor and guide. The stranger now lays his right 
hand on Edwin's discrowned head, and says, " When 
this sign shall next come upon thee, oh ! remember 
this time of night and this discourse ! remember this 
cold stone, and this thy present loneliness, and then 
turn thy mind to keep the promises that thou hast made 
here ! ** And with these words, and with a heavenly 
smile, the stranger disappears, as if he has vanished 
into air, and Edwin feels that he must have been 
talking, not with a mortal man, but with some blessed 
spirit. But the very next instant his faithful friend 
comes forth from King Redwald*s palace to seek him, 
and to give him joyful intelligence. The timid Red- 
wald has been awakened to shame and roused to 
courage by the remonstrances of his high-minded 
queen, and so he hath determined rather to brave the 
vengeance of Edilfred than give up his royal but un- 
fortunate and helpless guest. " Therefore/* says the 
faithful friend, " rise from that cold stone, and come 
unfearingly into the palace ; for the bloody ambassa- 
dors are dismissed, and Redwald the king will defend 
thee against all enemies ! " 
Edwin goes into the palace, and meat and drink are 

S laced before him. When the blue buffalo-horn, the 
rinking-cup of the Saxons, hath gone its round, Ed- 
win ana Redwald deliberate upon the means of con- 



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ducting the war against the tyrant of Northumbrian 
They resolve to anticipate his attack ; and shortly 
after, with an army suddenly raised, they surprise 
Edilfred, who is little dreaming of invasion, and defeat 
him and slay him in a great battle near to the east side 
of the river Idle, on the Mercian border. 

In brief space of time Edwin becomes king of all 
North um or ia, or of all the country of England which 
lies beyond the broad H umber. He is the best, as 
well as the most eminent, of all the kings of the Saxon 
heptarchy, showing in the acts of his government and 
at his high-tide of prosperity how greatly he has bene- 
fited by the lessons taught nira by adversity. But he 
is still unconverted. His friend King Redwald has 
made a compromise by erecting one altar to Christ 
and another to his idols ; but Edwin, as yet, perseveres 
in the faith of his ancestors. After reigning nine 
years, the great King of North umbria seeks in marriage 
Kihelberga, the fair daughter of the late Ethelbert, 
King of Kent, the convert of Augustin. The princess 
is a good Christian, and her brother Eadbald says to 
Edwin's ambassadors that a Christian may not marry 
an idolater. King Edwin makes reply that the fair 

Erincess, and whatever attendants she may bring with 
er across the H umber from Kent, shall be allowed 
the free exercise of their religion ; and furthermore 
he promises, upon the word of a king, that if, upon 
mature examination, be finds the religion of his wife 
holier and better than his own, he will embrace it. 
The Kentish monarch yields, and the affianced maiden 
sets out on her long journey. Divers good Christians 
follow her, but her chief spiritual guardian is the ve- 
nerable Italian monk Paulinus, one of the last of the 
missionaries whom Pope Gregory had sent to assist 
Augustin. Paulinus neglects no opportunity of plant- 
ing the Gospel in the north ; but although the queen 
aids him, and the king offers no opposition, his pro- 
gress is slow, and his prospect discouraging. But in 
the following year one of the two kings of the West 
Saxons, envious of the greatness which the once house- 
less wanderer has attained unto, dispatches a swords- 
man to assassinate him. It is Easter Sunday, the joy- 
fullest and holiest of all Sabbaths, and King Edwin 
with bis court is at his stately house upon the bank of 
the river Derwent. The desperate assassin presents 
himself under pretence of delivering a message from 
the king bis master, and while Edwin is conferring 
with him, he draws forth a poisoned dagger, and raises 
bis arm to strike ; but at this instant Lilla, that faithful 
attendant, with an unhesitating loyalty throws himself 
between the king and the murtberer, and abandons 
his whole body to the blow. So long is the dagger, 
and so strong the blow, that the poisoned weapon 
passes through the man to the king's person, and in- 
flicts a wound not to be slighted. The assassin is en- 
compassed and cut to pieces ; but before he dies he 
kills another of the king's attendants. Paulinus now 
presents himself to Edwin, who is suffering from his 
wound, and obtains from him the promise that if 
Christ cure his wound, and give him victory over the 
enemy who hath so barbarously and treacherously 
sought his life, he will become a Christian ; and as a 
pledge, he allows the infant daughter which Ethel- 
berga hath borne him a short space before to receive 
Christian baptism. Twelve converts are baptized 
with Edwin's daughter; but although Edwin goes 
to the wars in the country of the West Saxons, 
and returns victoriously, he still hesitates about 
casting off the faith which was professed by his own 
father and by all his ancestors, and which is still pro- 
fessed by nearly all his own subjects. Perhaps he dreads 
tevolt — perhaps his reason hath not yet beep fully con- 
vinced. He is in this state of indecision, and sitting 
one day alone in his chamber, lost in thought, when 



Paulinus comes boldly up to him, and laying his right 
hand on his head, says — " Oh king, dost thou remem- 
ber this sign, and the engagement it betokeneth ?" 
Then flash across the mind of Edwin, the palace of 
King Redwald, and the cold stone, and the sad des- 
pairing night, and then the spiritual visiting; and 
tort h with be trembles, rises in amaze and awe, and 
falls prostrate at the feet of the Christian missionary. 
44 Behold," says Paulinus, as he raises him from the 
earth, " behold how God hath delivered thee from all 
thine enemies and restored thee to thy kingdom, and 
to much more than thou then desiredst ? Then, per- 
form now what long since thou didst promise, and 
receive the doctrine and faith which I bring unto 
thee, and which to thy temporal, will add an eternal 
felicity ! " 

Edwin is converted from this moment, and solemnly 
engages to keep with Paulinus all the promises he had 
made to the nocturnal visitant But he is a politic 
ruler, preferring gentle conviction to force, and before 
proceeding to the baptismal font he calls together a 
great assembly of his nobles and the priests of Odin, 
in order that they may peacefully discuss the new doc- 
trines of love and peace, and compare them with the 
bloody creed which hath heretofore been their faith. 
The lords, warriors, and priests, assemble in a great 
hall near the river Swale. The great Northumbrian 
monarch, with his crown on his head, frankly awows 
his own sentiments, and requests each priest and lord 
here present to deliver his opinion with the same free- 
dom. Coin" the high-priest speaks first, after the king, 
and great is the astonishment of most of the assembly 
when he declares that the gods whom they had hitherto 
worshipped are worthless and utterly useless. " None,* 1 
says the high- priest, " hath served them with greater 
zeal than I have done, yet other men have prospered 
in the world far more than I have done. Therefore am 
I willing and ready to give a trial to this new religion.'* 
But next to Coin* the high-priest there rises a man of 
a nobler aspect, and the words he delivers are in a less 
worldly ana a wiser and purer spirit. Exquisite are 
they as reported by the venerable monk of Jarrow. 

'• The present life of man, O king, seems to me, in 
comparison of that life which is unknown to us, like 
to a sparrow swiftly flying through the room, well- 
warmed with the fire made in the midst of it, wherein 
you sit at supper in the winter nights, with conjmand- 
ers and counsellors, whilst the storms of ram and 
snow prevail abroad : the sparrow, I say, flying in at 
one door, and immediately out at another, whilst he is 
within is not affected by the winter storm ; but after a 
very brief interval of what is to him fair weather and 
safety, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, 
returning from one winter to another. So this life of 
man appears for a moment ; but of what went before, 
or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. If, there- 
fore, this new doctrine contains something more 
certain, it seems justly to deserve to be followed."* 

[Here we have, in addition to a familiar but beauti 
ful illustration of an argument, a most striking picture 
of ancient manners. The kingly hall is rough and 
rude in its magnificence; the fire is burning on a 
hearth in the middle of the room, and there must be a 
great aperture above it to allow the smoke to pass 
through ; the tables or stools at which the king and his 
great men are feasting, are drawn round the fire, and 
the aperture in the roof and the open doors, through 
which the sparrow can flit, admit the roaring of the 
wintry winds and the pattering of the rain and the 
sight of the noiseless snow.] 

When the Northumbrian noble ceases to speak, the 

* Mr. Wordsworth has versified the text of Bede in a beautiful 
and well-known sonnet, but which is scarcely so beautiful as the 
original in plain prose. 



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Italian missionary is called in to expound more fully 
the doctrines of the Christian faith. It is the high- 
priest Coifi that leads Paulinus into the assembly and 
entreats him to proceed. The missionary with the up- 
raised cross in his hand explains the Gospel, with its 
doctrine of peace and good-will upon earth, and its as- 
sured promises of immortality ; and while he speaks 
all present are as silent as statues and gaze at him 
witn wondering eyes. The fierce Northumbrians are 
softened and convinced, and then there goes a cry 
round the assembly that the God of the stranger must 
be the only true God, and that their own idols and 
blood-stained altars must down ! 

•' But who," exclaims King Edwin, •• will be the first 
to overturn them and desecrate the temples ?" " That 
will I do," says Coifi the high-priest, "and who more 
properly than myself can destroy those things which I 
worshipped through ignorance, for an example to all 
others, through the wisdom which is now given me by 
the true God?" And forthwith Coifi throws off his 
priestly robe, calls for arms, which the Saxon priests 
are forbidden to wield, and for a horse, which they are 
not permitted to mount ; and being both armed and 
mounted, he gallops forth among the amazed multi- 
tudes, who, not having heard the preaching of Pauli- 
nus, think that their high-priest is gone distracted. 

Not far from the place of conference there stands a 
great pagan temple, stark and rugged as the gods to 
whom it is dedicated. Within the temple stand grim 
and uncouth statues, or huge mis-shapen stones and 
blocks intended to represent the gigantic Odin with 
his mighty sword, and Thor with his mighty hammer, 
and Frea the wife of Odin with ber terrible mace, and 
other gods and goddesses with their savage attributes. 
The fane is guarded round about by several in closures 
of stone and wood ; but its strongest guard is the 
popular belief that none can offer it insult and live. 
Yet Coifi, careering on the royal steed, goes straight 
to this most holy spot, dashes through all the enclo- 
sures, dashes into the fane, and there with all his 
might burls a spear at the idols, and by this act dese- 
crates the place for ever. And yet Coifi lives and 
breathes— nay, he sits triumphantly upon the king's 
horse, and his face is not more triumphant than it is 
joyous and happy. Hence is it made clear to the 
Northumbrians that neither Odin nor Thor hath any 
controuj over the elements, that none of those gods can 
wield the thunderbolts of heaven or make the earth 
reel and crack with earthquakes ; that they are all 
nought. And losing no time the people second the 
efforts of Coifi, nor cease from their glad labour until 
the temple and its surrounding inclosures are all 
levelled with the ground. 

Now Paulinus with his assistant missionaries and 
his exulting neophytes sings litanies and hallelujahs, 
and girds up his loins for the arduous duty of baptizing 
a whole kingdom. The Pagan Temple called ' God- 
mundingham' (the name is preserved to our own day 
by the village of Goodmanham) is in the east of York- 
shire, and not remote from the river Swale ; and as im- 
mersion is required in the rite of baptism by the pri- 
mitive church, and as the converts are so numerous 
and impatient, Paulinus needs nothing less than a river 
for his baptismal font. In one day he baptizes in the 
waters of the Swale twelve thousand converts. He 
then crosses the Humber and goes into that wild 
country of fens, meres, and morasses, which we now 
call Lincolnshire, and converts the wild people, and 
builds a church of stone near to the spot where the 
glorious Cathedral of Lincoln now stands. 

Edwin, rising in power and dignity, becomes Bret- 
walda, or King of Kings, and all the states of the Hep- 
tarchy acknowledge his supremacy and submit to his 
awards. Thus are the promises of the nocturnal visit- 



ant, who found him seated on the cold stone, more 
than fulfilled. But, according to the faith which be 
has adopted, this temporal greatness is as nothing 
compared with eternal happiness, and to see the fulfil- 
ment of that best promise which the stranger has 
made, and which Paulinus has confirmed, Edwin's 
faith and constancy must be tried, and he must die ; 
death being the only portal to eternal life. Penda, 
King of the Mercian Angles, the terrible and bloody 
Penda, who will not be converted even by miracles* 
and who despises Christianity as a religion that ener- 
vates men, and makes them unfit for war, calls to his 
standard all the fanatics of the old Scandinavian faith, 
all the men that prefer plunder and conquest ta 
peaceful industry, and all the Northumbrians who are 
dissatisfied with the changes which the good Edwin 
has introduced among them : and having collected a 
mighty force Penda crosses the Trent and the Hum- 
ber, and bursts into Northumbria threatening to root 
out that whole nation as well as the Christian faith : 
and Penda being joined by the Welsh and by the un- 
converted mountaineers of the north-west coast of the 
island, overthrows the Christian Northumbrians in a 
great battle fought in the year 633 near Heathfield, 
slays King Edwin, and sticks his bead upon a lance. 
A portion of the people are massacred in heaps, the 
rest slide back to their ancient idolatry, or purchase 
life by a feigned submission to the will of the savage 
Penda, and to the teaching of his high-priest No 
refuge from these calamities being left save flight, 
Paulinus, taking with him the widowed Queen Ethel- 
berga and her children, escapes by sea, and gets back 
to Kent and to the Christian court of the queen's 
brother Eadbald, who receives the party of fugitives 
with every kindness. Paulinus becomes Bishop of 
Rochester, and ends his life in that see. 

But King Edwin's nejjhew Oswald—Oswald of the 
•* Bounteous hand," and a prince of rare promise- 
instead of going southward goes to the far north, and 
crossing rivers, mountains, and the sea, seeks and finds 
an asvlurn among the Culdees, or Christian monks, 
who nave peopled Iona, and made of that black and 
barren rock a centre of light and civilization. Here 
the fugitive Oswald, young in years, and docile in dis- 
position, is taught lessons of worldly wisdom, and fully 
instructed in the Christian faith as professed and prac- 
tised by the Culdees. Although he runs not the same 
risks, he is cheered, as his uncle Edwin was in the 
days of his early troubles, by bright visions of future 
success and everlasting happiness. When of a manly 
age, he quits Iona with the blessings and prayers of 
these primitive Christian priests, and returns into 
Northumbria to gain a cnpwn and re-establish the 
true faith. The army he at first collects is but small, 
yet with it he defeats the immense forces of his Pagan 
foe close by a little river running into the Tyne, under 
the ancient Roman wall. This little river, called the 
Devil's Burn or the Devil's Brook, now changes its 
name into Heavcnford, and the field is called Heaven- 
field.* The Pagans had boasted that they were in- 
vincible; but Oswald had brought with him from 
Iona a holy cross— this cross had been his only stand- 
ard, and to it he looked for victory over his countless 
foesi who most vainly invoked Odin and Thor. 

After this great victory the throne of Oswald is 
established in peace, the more savage of the Pagans 
are driven out, and the true faith is re-established 
throughout Northumbria. To instruct his people, 
Oswald now sends to his own instructors, and his hosts 
and protectors, the Culdees of Iona, entreating them to 
send him some members of their devout and learned 
community. The monks listen to the call, and a ship* 

* The spot is supposed to be near Diltton in Northumberland, 
an ancient teat of the Earla of Dcnrentwater. 



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sails away from Iona with a godly freight, while the 
Culdeos stand on the bleak shore of the isle, and, with 
uplifted hands, implore the blessing of Heaven upon 
this endeavour to spread the Gospel. But Father Gor- 
man, the chosen missionary, is alarmed at the ferocity 
of the Pagans that dwell in the mountains which bor- 
der on Northumbria, and he soon returns quite dis- 
heartened to Iona, where he gives to bis brethren a 
most sad account of his mission. A chapter of the 
order is assembled forthwith, and the unsuccessful 
missionary excuses bis failure by dwelling upon the 
barbarous disposition and gross intellect of the North- 
umbrians. He is interrupted by a reproachful voice 
which says—** Brother, you seem to have forgotten the 
apostolic injunction, that little children ought to be 
fed with milk, that they may afterwards be fitted for 
stronger food V* All eyes are turned upon the speaker, 
who is Aidan, a monk of the order, of singular zeal and 
meekness, and of great piety and learning ; and he, 
being willing to brave every danger, is immediately 
appointed to the mission. Again the bark sails from 
Iona with prayers and blessings; and Aidan soon 
reaches the court of King Oswald, and commences his 
holy task of instructing the people. Success attends 
his labours, and, until he learns their language, the 
king himself interprets his discourses to the Northum- 
brians. Other Culdees come to co-operate with Aidan, 
who soon founds a monastery upon the bleak island of 
Lindisfame, which has many points of resemblance 
with his beloved Iona, and which is somewhat safer 
from intrusion and from pagan violence than any spot 
lie could choose on the mainland. From this time 
Lindisfame obtains and merits the name of the Holy, 
or " Holy Island/* which it now retains after the lapse 
of twelve hundred years. The community established 
by Aidan flourishes on this English Iona, and dispenses 
its spiritual benefits over all the rough country of the 
north for two centuries, wherrit is rooted out, and the 
island wasted by sword and fire by the heathenish 
Danes. But the bright light cannot be extinguished, 
and in the course of a few years the monastery and the 
church and the schools of Holy Island rise from their 
ashes more stately than before : — and not a 

Vessel skirts the strand 

Of mountainous Northumberland, 

but strikes its flag or lowers its sail in honour of the 
holy place. 

But before King Oswald and the good monk Aidan 
go to receive in a better world the reward of their 
labours and trials in this, great progress is made in the 
work of conversion. King Oswald, seeing the happy 
effects produced upon his own people, who renounce 
their ferocious habits, is m*3st anxious to extend the 
blessings of Christianity throughout the Heptarchy 
and over every part of the island. He repairs to the 
court of Wessex to ask in marriage the daughter of 
King Kineglis or Cynegils, and he prevails not only 
upon his bride, but also upon the king her father to 
receive baptism. The faith being thus introduced into 
Wessex* Berlnus, a missionary, comes hither from 
Home, and preaches and teaches and converts all these 
West Saxons, and establishes a see and becomes the 
first Bishop of Dorchester. Yet the meek, pious, and 
charitable Oswald meets with the same fate as his pre- 
decessor King Edwin, being, after only eight years' 
reign, overthrown and killed in battle by the savage 
and unconvertible Penda, King of Mercia. He is 
succeeded by his brother Oswy, who reigns a good 
many years as a virtuous and religious sovereign, di- 
viding part of the royal authority with Oswin, a nephew 
of King Edwin ; but at last he causes that prince to be 
treacherously murdered, and this foul and un-Chris- 
tian deed causes so much grief to the good old Aidan 



that he dies within twelve days after its perpetration, 
leaving an enduring reputation behind him for his 
charity, meekness, and labour in the Gospel. The 
grateful Church of Rome canonizes both Aidan and 
his friend, pupil, and interpreter, King Oswald. To 
expiate the foul murther, Oswy builds a monastery, 
wherein prayers are daily offered up for the souls of 
both princes, the slain and the slayer. 

Peada, the son of that terrible foe to Christianity, 
King Penda, while his father is yet alive, seeks the 
hand of Alchfleda the daughter of the Northumbrian 
King Oswy. As this Christian princess will not marry 
a pagan, Peada abjures his idols and is baptized ; and, 
together with his bride, he carries with him into Mer- 
cia four Christian missionaries, whose labours are so 
efficacious, and whose lives are so pure and holy, that 
even the rugged heart of old Penda is touched and 
softened. Seeing that much immediate temporal good 
results from the conversion, and that the converted 
become far more orderly and industrious than the 
pagan part of his subjects, Penda, though himself still 
clinging to the worship of Odin, allows the missionaries 
to continue their good work. He prohibited none in 
his kingdom to hear or believe the Gospel ; but he 
hated and despised those who professing to believe, 
attested not their faith by good works, or whose prac- 
tice in daily life was at variance with their creed. 

Miracles upon earth, and signs and omens in the 
heavens, are not wanting in these early chapters of the 
* History of Religion in England ;' but they are told 
briefly and in the most evident good faith, and most of 
them may be traced to some of the great phenomena of 
nature. Thus the process of conversion is facilitated 
by the appearance of a fiery pillar which shows itself 
in the heavens between night and morning for the 
space of three months — the same pillar of fire being a 
comet. 

The last state of the Heptarchy that quits the wor- 
ship of Odin is the small kingdom of the South Saxons 
or Sussex; but at the close of the seventh century 
Wilfrid, Bishop of York — that famous builder of 
churches — with the help of other spiritual labourers, 
planted the Gospel here also, having first obtained 
great favour and influence with the people of all that 
coast by teaching them how to make nets and how to 
carry on their fishing in a safer and more profitable 
manner than that to which they had been accustomed. 
And thus was it with all these uncivilized commu- 
nities ; they all received temporal as well as spiritual 
advantages from more enlightened missionaries, some 
of whom were natives of far more civilized coun- 
tries, and not a few of whom, though native English 
or Scots, had travelled in foreign lands in which the 
irruptions of the barbarians had never wholly destroyed 
the arts and civilization of the ancient Romans. These 
primitive missionaries practised as well as taught the 
arts of building, weaving, agriculture, draining, &c, 
and the proper mode of tending flocks and herds. 
Wherever they fixed their seat permanently the face 
of the country was changed ; woods were cleared, 
morasses were drained, rivers were embanked, and 
roads were cut. The first to begin the arduous task of 
draining the vast fens of Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, 
and Huntingdonshire were some of our first mission- 
aries, or some of the very first of our bishops and 
abbots, who were allowed to take possession of great 
tracts of country which were despised by the men of 
the sword, and which seemed worthless and incapable 
of being converted into productive and pleasant abid- 
ing-places. What the Romans had scarcely attempted 
in their plenitude of power was undertaken by these 
poor religious men ? and was prosecuted steadily, and 
to an extent and with a degree of success altogether 
astonishing for that barbarous age. If we strip the 



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lives and deeds of Saint Guthlacus, Saint Chad, and 
other worthies of our earliest church, of the legends 
and hyperboles which were written about them several 
centuries after they had ceased to live, we shall find 
that they were creat drainers and cultivators of land ; 
that they turned their own information and ingenuity, 
and the industry of a scanty population, into the most 
useful channels ; that they reclaimed land by cutting 
canals, and giving the floods from the uplands a free 
course into the beds of rivers and to the ocean ; that 
they turned bogs into firm land, and an air full of 
pestiferous exhalations, noisome to the sense and de- 
structive of the health of man, into a comparatively 
sweet and wholesome atmosphere ; that tne fiends, 
goblins, and sprites, and the blue, hellish lights they 
drove away, were but the mephitic $ases which rise 
from stagnant waters and anion** thick underwood ; 
and, in short, that Guthlacus and his compeers wrought 
real miracles by perfectly natural means, and were the 
first of our illustrious line of civil engineers. In this 
capacity Guthlacus is entitled to a place in our Val- 
halla. We would see him with his cross planted by 
his side, and with his measuring rod in his hand, su- 
perintending the road-making or the canal-cutting at 
Crowland, or the driving of stakes into the moist, 
yielding ground, to <jet a foundation for the first edi- 
fice erected in this wilderness for the worship of the 
true God, and for the habitation of God's servants, and 
men fitted alike to teach the savages of the wilderness 
how to improve this world which passes away, and how 
to prepare for that which endures for ever. 

The incursions and invasions of the Danes, which 
filled the- Saxon calendar with martyrs, gave our 
churches and monasteries to the flames, and in some 
parts of the island nearly obliterated all traces of the 
Christian worship. Their fanaticism was far fiercer 
than that of the Saxons had ever been, and they 
were further attracted to the religious houses by the 
wealth they contained. The monks did not always 
trust only to their prayers and the intercession 
of their saints: many were the battles they fought 
with the invader in defence of their altars and shrines ; 
and many and very moving are the tales told by the 
old chroniclers of bishops and abbots who led their 
people to battle, and who fell under the pagan battle- 
axe, or who, being made prisoners, braved all the hor- 
rible tortures the Danes could inflict upon them, and 
faced grim death rather than purchase life and security 
by apostacy. The fierce sea-kings were amazed, and 
at times awed, by this unearthly fortitude ; and occa- 
sionally a martyrdom was followed by a conversion of 
the heathen. 

The episode of Alphege, Archbishop of Canterbury, 
and saint and martyr, is full of picture. 

It is the miserable reign of the Saxon king Ethelred, 
so properly nicknamed 4 the Unready.' This pusilla- 
nimous king, and his corrupt and spiritless government, 
think it better to buy oft' the Danes than to oppose 
them with arms, in this season of baseness and 
cowardice, a priest sets an example of valour and 
military skill, and a quiet town, abounding not in 
soldiers, but in monks, nobly stands a siege. A great 
Danish force comes suddenly before Canterbury and 
summons the place to surrender. " No," says Arch- 
bishop Alphege ; " we will fifjht for our country and 
our faith ! We will defend with our lives the church 
which the blessed Augustin founded, though we be but 
monks!" Low are the walls and weak the gates of 
Canterbury, yet for twenty days does the bold, Eng- 
lish-hearted prelate make good the place against the 
ravenous and furious Danes. But, just as the besiegers 
are on the point of retreating lo their ships, some exe- 
crable traitors within the town throw open one of the 
gates by night and call the pagans in. Then follows 



a carnage of God's people, and of the men who have 
had the courage to fignt for their religion and their 
country. The archbishop is not slain, because the 
Danes hope to extort more money by keeping him 
alive ; but he is seized, reviled, buffeted, loaded with 
chains, and carried out to the Danish camp, from 
which, when his blinding tears allow him, he can see 
his fair church and half of Canterbury in a blaze. 
Soon thry carry him on board a filthy ship, but they 
land him again ere long, and bid him purchase 
his liberty and life by paying a great sum or money, 
which he must first wring from the distressed people 
of the country. He refuses : they threaten torture and 
death, but he still refuses, again and again. The 
Danes assemble at a drunken banquet, and carouse 
to their false gods, or to the demons of war and 
slaughter, and, when mad with drink, they fall into 
talk about the archbishop and his daring obstinacy. 
41 Let him be brought hither, that we may deal with 
him," says a sea-king ; and forthwith Alphege is 
brought in, sinking under the weight of his chains, 
but with a spirit as erect and fearless as ever. 
The pagans quit their drink, and gather round him 
with many menacing gestures, and shouting, " Gold ! 
bishop, gold ! Give us gold, and get ye gone !'* Al- 
phege replies, as before, that he has no gold-* that he 
will give no money to the enemies of his country— the 
enemies of his religion ; and, still unmoved, he looks 
round that circle of fierce, godless men. At last the 
drunken pagans lose all patience, and, breaking up in 
rage and disorder, and running to a great heap of 
bones, horns, and jaw-bones, the relics of their gross 
feast, they throw these things at him until he falls to 
the ground bleeding and half-dead : and as he thus lies 
helpless, a Danish pirate raises his ponderous battle-axe, 
and finishes his martyrdom by cleaving his skull. 



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Thus passeth year by year, and day by day, 
Till it fell ones* in a morrow of May 
That Emily, that fairer was to teen 
Than is the lily, upon his stalke green, 
And fresher than the May with flow'res new 
(For with the rose-colour strove her hue, 
I n'ot which was the finer of them two), 
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, 
She was arisen, and all ready dight ;f 
For May will hare no sluggardy a-night 
The season pricketh % every gentle heart, 
And maketn him out of his sleep to start, 
And saith — Arise, and do thine 6bservance.$ 

This maketh Emily have remembrance 
To do hon6ur to May, and for to rise : 
Y clothed was she fresh for to devise. 

* Once. f Dressed. 

♦ Exciteth. § Respect. 



Her yellow hair was braided in a tress 
Behind her back, a yarde long, I guess; 
And in the garden at the sun u prist 
She walketh up and down, where as her list : 
She gathereth fiow'res, party w hite and red, 
To make a subtle garland for her bead, 
And as an angel heavenly she sung. 

Against the garden wall stood the thick tower in 
which the Knights were imprisoned. Bright was the 
sun, and clear the morning; and Palamon, by the 
gaoler's leave, roamed in a chamber at the top of the 
tower, commanding a view of the nohle city, and of the 
garden below, where Emily was walking. To and fro 
went the sorrowful prisoner, complaining of his woe, 
and lamenting that he had been born ; until, through 
the barred window, he cast his eye upon Emily, when 
he started, with an exclamation, as though he were 



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stung to the heart. What aileth thee, cousin? asked 
Arcite — 

Why criedst thou ? who hath thee done offence 1 

For Goddes love take all in patience 

Our prison, for it niay mine other be, 

Fortune hath given us this auversity. 

Palamon answered, It Lb not the prison thatcauseth 
me to cry, but the fairness of a lady that I see yonder 
in the garden. I know not whether she be a woman 
or a goddess, but truly I think it is Venus. Arcite 
then began to perceive Emily in the garden, and was 
so smitten with her beauty, 

That if that Palamon were wounded sore, 

Arcite it hurt as much as he, or more. 
And sighing, he said in a piteous tone, unless I obtain 
her grace, bo that at the least I may see her, I am but 
as one dead. 

When Palamon heard these words, he looked fiercely 
upon Arcite, and asked him whether he were in earnest 
or in play. In earnest, by my faith, said Arcite ; God 
help me, I am but little inclined to play. Knitting his 
brows, Palamon returned — It were no great honour to 
thee to be a traitor to me, that am thy cousin and 
brother. We have sworn to each other that not even 
the fear of death shall divide us, and that in love thou 
shouldest forward me in my case, as I would in thine. 
And now thou wouldest falsely love the lady whom I 
love and serve. But thou shaft not. I loved her first, 
and told thee my love. As a knight therefore thou 
art bound to assist me. 

Arcite proudly replied — Thou shalt be rather false 
than me; and thou art false. I loved her first. Thou 
knewost not whether she were a woman or a goddess. 
And suppose that thou didst love her first, 

Wot'st thou not well the olde clerkcs saw 

That—' 4 Who shall give a lover any law" 1 
# * * * 

We strive as did tlie houudes for (he bone, 

They fought all day, and yet their port was none. 

There came a kite, while that they were so wroth, 

And tiare away the bone Iwtwixt them both. 

And therefore at the kiuges court, my brother, 

Each man for himself — there is none other.* 
Great and long continued was the strife between them ; 
but I have no leisure to describe it; so to my story. It 
happened that a worthy duke named Peritlious, who 
had been a companion to Theseus from the day that 
they were children, came to Athens on a visit, as 
Mas his custom, for no man in this world loved he so 
well as Theseus, who loved him as tenderly in return. 
This Duke Peritlious had also long known and loved 
Arcite; and at his request, Theseus finally agreed to 
deliver him from prison, without ransom, freely to 
wander where he pleased ; but on pain of death, if he 
were ever again found, by day or night, for one moment, 
within the duke's country. 1 here was no other remedy, 
no time nor opportunity for counsel. Arcite takes his 
leave, and speeds homeward. Let him beware, his 
head lielh in pledge. 

H.iw great a sorrow stiflTereth now Arcite ! 

'Hie death he fceleth through his hearte smite ; 

He weejjetb, waileth, crieth piteously ; 

To slay himself he waileth privily. 

He said — Al.u ! the day that I was bom. 

dear cousin Palamon, thine is the victory of this 
adventure. Full blissful mayest thou endure in prison. 

1 n prison ! — nay, but in Paradise. Since fortune is 
changeable, thou mayest by some chance attain thy 
desire ; but I am exiled, barren of all grace, and in 
such great despair, that nothing may heal or comfort 
me. 

On the other hand, when Palamon knew that Arcite 
was gone, he made the prison resound with his cries. 
♦ None other rule. • 



Alas ! said ho, Arcite, my cousin, thou hast the fruit 
of all our strife. At Thebes now thou walkest at large, 
and mayest assemble thy kindred, and make such sharp 
war upon this country, that by Borne treaty or adven- 
ture thoir mayest obtain Emily to wife. And therewith 
the fire of jealousy seized bis heart so fiercely, 



-that he like was to behold 



The box-tree, or the ashes dead aud cold. 

Then said lie — O cruel gods, that govern this world 
with the binding of your eternal words, who write in 
the table of adamant the issue of your consultations, 
what is mankind in your eyes more than the sheep 
who huddle together in the fold ? 

You lovers, ask I now this quest ion, 
"Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamon? 
That one may see his lady day by day, 
But in prison must he dwelleu alway : 
That other where him lust * may ride or gay 
But see his lady shall he never mo.' 

When Arcite reached Thebes, often times in a day 
he fainted, and, shortly to describe his woe— 

So muchel sorrow had never creature 

That is or shall be, while the world may Mure. 

His sleep, his meat, his drink, is him beraft,f 

That lean he wax'd, and dry as is a' shaft 

His eyen hollow, and grisly to behold; 

His hue fallow,! and pale as ashes cold ; 

And solitary he was, aud ever alone, 

And wailing all the night, making his moan : 

And if he hearde song or instrument, 

Then would he weep ; he might* not be stent,§ 

So feeble were his spirits, and so low, 

And changed so, that no man coulde know 

His speeche, ne his voice, though men it heard. 

When he had endured for a year or two these cruel 
torments, one night, as he lay in sleep, he thought 
that the winged god Mercury stood before him, and 
bade him be of good cheer. He bare upright in his 
hand the sleep-coin pel ling wand ; he wore a hat upon 
his bright hair, and was arrayed as at the time that 
Argus took his memorable sleep. He said to Arcite — 
Thou shalt go to Athens; there is prepared for thee 
an end to thy woe. Arcite starting, awoke, and said — 
How sure soever I may sutler for it, I will immedi- 
ately set out for Athens : in Emily's presence I care 
not to die. And with that word he caught a great 
mirror, and saw that his colour and visage were quite 
changed, and the thought ran through his mind, that 
if he were to disguise himself as one of humble circum- 
stances, he might live in Athens unknown evermore, 
and see his lady daily. Immediately he altered his 
array, put on the garb of a poor labourer, and with 
only one squire, that he had taken into his entire 
counsel, went to Athens, where he proffered his ser- 
vices at the gate of the Duke's court, to drudge and 
draw, just as might be required of him. Arcite espe- 
cially looked to see who served Emily, and so presently 
was engaged by her chamberlain. And well could 
Arcite hew wood and carry water, for he was young 
and strongly built. He remained a year or two thus 
engaged, as page of the chamber of Emily the bright, 
and was known by the name of Philostrate ; 

But half so well beloved a man as he 
Ne was there never in court of his degree. 

He was so gentle of behaviour, that his renown spread 
throughout the court, and Theseus made him his 
squire, when he acquitted himself so well, both in peace 
and war, during three years, trut there was no man 
held dearer by Theseus than Arcite. 
In darkness, and in a strong and horrible prison, 



• Please. 



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Palamon for seven years hath sat, wasted with love 
and distress. He goeth out of his wiis with sorrow. 
He is not a prisoner for a season, but eternally. 

It fell, however, that in the seventh year, the third 
night of May, Palamon, having given his gaoler a 
drink made of wine, and containing narcotics, so that 
he went into a deep sleep, escaped out of prison, and 
took shelter before daylight in a neighbouring grove, 
meaning to hide there during the day, and then in the 
evening return to Thebes, assemble his friends, and 
make war upon Theseus, in order to gain Emily or lose 
his life. Meanwhile Arcite little anticipated the trouble 
that Fortune had in store for him, until she had brought 
hin* into the snare. 

The busy lark, the messenger of day, 
Saluteth in her song the morrow grey ; 
And fiery Phoebus riscth up so bright 
That all the Orient laugheth of the sight ; 
And with his streames drieth in the greves* 
The silver droppei hanging on the leaves. 

And Arcite is risen : and, looking on the merry day, 
prepares to fulfil the due observances of the season. 
On his courser, starting as the fire, he rideth to the 
lields, and by chance toward the very grove where 
Paiamon lay hid : 

And loud he sang against the sunne sheen— 
O, May ! with all thy Uow'res and thy green, 
Right welcome be thou, faire freshe May ; 
1 hope that I some green here getten may : 
And from his courser with a lusty heart 
Into the grove full hastily he start 

When he had roamed and sung his fill, he fell sud- 
denly into a study. Alas, cried he, the day that'I was 
horn ! Alas, thou fell Mars ! Alas, thou fell Juno ! 
Ye have destroyed all our lineage excepting Palamon 
and my wretched self ! And now Love will slay me 
utterly. Emily, ye be the cause for which I die. All 
my other troubles I value not. And therewith he fell 
down in a trance. 

Palamon, as he heard these words, 

■ thought throughout his heart 

He felt a colde sword suddenly glide — 

and could no longer conceal himself. So, starting 
from among the thick bushes, he cried— False Arcite ! 
False traitor wicked ! Tims art thou caught. I will 
now be dead, or else thou shalt die. Arcite, having 
heard his tale, drew his sword, and with a solemn oath, 
exclaimed — Were it not that thou art sick, and mad 
with love, and that thou hast no weapon, thou shouldest 
never leave this grove, but die by my hand : 

Por I defy the surety and the bond 

Which that thou say'st that I have made to thee, 

What ! very fool, mink well that love is free. 

Since, however, thou art a worthy knight, and desirest 
to contest Emily by battle, I pledge here my truth, to 
bring armour to-morrow for us both. Choose the best 
yourself, and leave the worst for me. I will also bring 
thee, this night, meat, drink, and bedding, and if thou 
slay me in this wood, and win my lady, thou mayest 
freely have her, as far as I am concerned. Palamon 
agreed, and so they parted until the morrow. 

O Cupid, out of alle charity, 

O reign, that will no fellow have with thee, 

Truly is it said that neither love nor lordship will, 
with their good will, have any sharers: 

Well finden that Arcite and Palamon. 
[To be continued.] 
* Groves. 



SUPPLY OF WATER IN AMERICAN TOWNS 

[Concluded from p. 71 .] 

The necessity for a more plentiful supply of water 
than that furnished by the wells, was felt at New York so 
long back as 1774, when the city numbered only twenty 
thousand inhabitants. In 1798, again, it was matter of 
serious discussion, and various plans were suggested, 
and engineers consulted ; but nothing definite was done, 
and the matter again fell to the ground. In 1822. a little 
more was effected ; a committee was formed to inves- 
tigate the matter, and surveys and estimates were made, 
a company formed, reports published, shares issued; 
yet things went on year by year ; and even this died 
away. In 1831 more talking and suggesting took 
place ; and in 1832 the appearance of cholera in the 
city gave more earnestness than ever to the wish of 
having a plentiful store of good water. Notwith- 
standing all this, however, so difficult is it to rouse a 
corporate body to strike out a new course of action, 
that it was not till 1837 that a beginning was made in 
the actual prosecution of a definite and attainable plan. 
The year 1842 witnessed the completion ; and we may 
now describe the way in which it has been executed. 

One of the plans formerly proposed was to throw a 
dam across the river Hudson, so as to exclude the en- 
trance of salt water from the sea, and to convey the water 
thence to New York ; but as a free passage by means 
of locks must be left for navigation, the plan was not 
practicable. Hence attention was directed to some 
other river, which might be made to yield its water 
before mingling with the sea-water, without interrupt- 
ing any navigation. The river Croton, flowing through 
the mainland, answered this character ; and the Croton 
aqueduct now exhibits the working out of the plan. 
It is observed in the Athenaeum that this aqueduct is 
•' one of the most remarkable works of modern times. 
. . . Here we have the waters of a river 
dammed up at their sources, pure and undefiled, 
a virgin stream, springing up among the woods in 
a remote forest, and consecrated to the health and 
happiness of a great city no less than forty wiles 
off. The waters of the river,^>eing pent up at their 
fountain-head in the silent woods, are to be trans- 
ported, or have the means of transporting themselves, 
through a rough and uneven country those lorry 
miles. An artificial channel, built with square stones, 
supported on solid masonry, is carried over valleys, 
through rivers, under hills, on arches and banks, or 
through tunnels and bridges, over these forty miles. 
Not a pipe, but a sort of condensed river, arched over 
to keep it pure and safe, is made to flow at the rate of 
a mile and a half an hour towards New York. A mile, 
and a half of pure water measured off to the drinking in- 
habitants of New York every hour! And yet this is no 
tale of a sea-serpent or of a tub." 

The Croton is a small river flowing into the Hudson. 
The sources are about fifty miles from the city, and 
are mostly springs which form a good many ponds and 
lakes in the depressions of a hilly country. About 
twenty of these lakes, having an aggregate area of 
three million acres, form the sources of the Croton ; 
and the river so formed flows with rather a rapid de- 
scent over a bedof gravel and masses of broken rock. 
The water is so very pure, that the Indians who 
formerly inhabited the district gave it a name corres- 
ponding to " clear water." At one particular spot a 
dam has been thrown across the river, to a great 
height, and this forms a "back-water," or level, sheet 
of water to a distance of six miles above the dani ; the 
level has an area of about four hundred acres, and 
forms the fountain reservoir for the aqueduct. This 
reservoir, down to the level where the water would 
cease to flow off into the aqueduct, contains six hun 

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died millions of gallons, and the quantity flowing into 
it is fifty million gallons in twenty-four hours ; so that 
the reservoir may be kept always full, and yet vield 
two million gallons per hour to the inhabitants of New 
York ! Even if no more water flowed into it, the re- 
servoir contains enough water for the entire popula- 
tion for three months. 

The next point was, to form a channel to carry this 
vast body or water a distance of forty miles. Various 
plans were proposed— such as a plain channel formed of 
earth, like the ordinary construction of a canal-feeder ; 
an open channel protected against the action of the 
current by masonry ; or an arched culvert or conduit 
composed essentially of masonry and iron-pipes. The 
first was rejected on account of absorption, waste, 
evaporation, dirt, and other objections; the second 
was liable to the same objections ; and therefore the 
third was adopted. If iron-pipes followed the un- 
dulations of the ground, the flow of water would meet 
with resistance; and therefore the engineer deter- 
mined on a gradually descending channel formed of 
masonry. On this plan the works have been con- 
ducted. Where the ground rose in elevation, it was 
either lowered by a cutting or pierced by a tunnel ; 
where a valley occurred, the stone aqueduct was 
carried across it by embankment, or piles, or arches ; 
where a small stream occurred, the aqueduct was 
carried under it, or over it, or through it, according 
to the relative levels of the land. Thus the continuous 
channel has been carried to the enormous distance 
of thirty-eicht miles from the fountain-reservoir, until 
t came to the salt-water river or strait which divides 
ihc mainland from the island on which the city stands. 

At this spot an important question had to be decided. 
How was this Herculean river, a quarter of a mile in 
width, to be crossed by the aqueduct ? was there to be 
an aqueduct bridge ; or an inverted siphon of iron- 
pipes descending to a level near the river surface, and 
passing along a stone embankment perforated by an 
arch sufficient for the passage of the stream; or a 
suspension bridge on stone piers, maintaining the 
regular inclination of the aqueduct, and supporting 
iron-pipes; or a low bfidge supporting an inverted 
siphon of iron-pipes ? All these plans were suggested, 
and the last-named was fixed upon ; but after some 
progress had been made towards its completion, an 
Act of the Legislature required, either Chat the pro- 
jectors should tunnel under the river at a specified 
depth, or raise their structure on arches of eighty feet 
span, and elevated a hundred feet above the level of 
high water. The engineer chose the bridge alter- 
native, and carried his channel across the river to 
Manhattan island ; the length thus carried being about 
thirteen or fourteen hundred feet. 

Before reaching the city, the aqueduct had to be 
conducted across a valley occurring in the island itself; 
and the engineer wished to effect this in a grand and 
imposing manner: but motives of economy led to a 
cheaper mode of effecting this. 

When, at length, after this. extraordinary journey of 
forty miles, the welcome stream reaches the city, the 
arrangements for its reception are worthy of the mag- 
nitude which characterises the whole undertaking. 
The aqueduct terminates in an immense reservoir, 
covering the area of seven "squares" or blocks of 
building-ground in the city; it is thirty feet high, 
covers more than thirty acres, and contains one 
month's supply for the city. Two miles further on 
is another reservoir for distributing the water, built 
entirely of stone, and measuring four hundred and 
thirty-six feet square by forty-five deep ; it contains 
twenty millions of gallons, the capacity of the larger 
being a hundred and fifty millions. The surface of the 
fountain reservoir, near the source of the Croton river, 



is about a hundred and seventy feet above the level of 
mean tide at New York ; and the difference of level 
between the former and the surface of the receiving 
reservoirs in the city is forty-eight feet, so that the 
surface in the city reservoir is about a hundred and 
twenty feet above the level of mean tide. The level in 
the distributing reservoir is about four feet lower than 
in the former ; so that every part of every house in 
New York, not exceeding a hundred and fifteen feet 
above the level of mean tide, can have water brought 
to it from thiB reservoir. 

A beautiful illustration took place of the law by 
which water will seek to attain a common level when 
free to act At the spot where the aqueduct h carried 
over the valley in the island, the engineer opened the 
pipe by a circular aperture seven inches in diameter. 
The water impelled by a force derived from a descent 
of a hundred and twenty feet (the difference of altitude 
between the Fountain Keservoir and the Valley Via- 
duct), rushed up in a column to a height of a hundred 
and fifteen feet, amounting very nearly to the difference 
of level. This was perhaps tne most magnificent jet 
cTeau ever produced. Mr. Towers describes with a 
well-grounded enthusiasm his feelings at the moment 
when this splendid fountain made its appearance :— 
"To those wno had watched over the work during its 
construction, and looked for its successful operation, 
this was peculiarly gratifying. To see the water leap 
from its opening, and rise upwards with such force and 
beauty, occasioned pleasing emotions, and gave proof 
that the design and execution were alike faultless, and 
that all the fondest hopes of its projectors would be 
realized. The scenery around this fountain added 
much to its beauty ; there it stood, a whitened column 
rising from the river, erect or shifting its form like a 
forest-tree as the wind swayed it, with the rainbow tints 
resting on its spray ; while on either side the woody 
hills rose to rival its height. All around was nature ; 
no marble basin, no allegorical figures wrought with 
exquisite touches of art to lure the eye, but a fountain 
where Nature had adorned the place with the grandeur 
and beauty of her rude hills and mountain scenery. " 

There was a communication sent to the ' Athenroum' 
some time after the publication Of Mr. Towers' de- 
scription, condemnatory of some parts df the arrange- 
ment, and tending to show that the effects as to the 
supply of water were not equal to the sanguine state- 
ments of the projectors. But, in att undertaking so 
vast, it is not at all improbable that some boints of 
inferior success should occur, and even if tnese ob- 
jections be founded correctly, there is still a large 
measure of admiration due to those who have planned 
and executed the work ; a beginning has been made, in 
fact, which will have its influence as an example very 
widely diffused. 

An English tourist, who visited America in the 
autumn of 1843, thus notices the aqueduct in a com- 
munication to the ' Literary Gazette : — " I found New 
York much improved and enlarged since my last visit. 
The introduction of the waters of the Croton River 
from a distance of forty miles, has contributed much to 
its improvement, and is a work scarcely inferior to the 
Erie Canal, which connects the ocean with the lakes. 
An abundant supply of pure water is now offered to 
every house in the city ; and conduits, or ■ hydrauts ' 
as they are called, are pouring it forth in almost every 
street ; and as if to show that the supply is more abun- 
dant than the demand, magnificent fountains are 
spouting their jets, in immense volumes, fifty or sixty 
feet in height, with smaller jets issuing from the same 
stem. One of these fountains is constructed near the 
battery, another in the park, and a third near the 
northern extremity of Broadway ; so that New York 
may justly claim the title of the * city of the fountains,' ' 



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BRISTOL CATHEDRAL. 

Most of the cathedrals of Great Britain and Ireland 
have already been described in the f Penny Magazine :* 
it is intended to give an account of the remainder, so as 
to include the whole of those grand ecclesiastical struc- 
tures, many of them admirable as specimens of con- 
summate architectural skill, most of them interesting 
from their connection, more or less, with the great 
events of English history, and all of them venerable 
as having been the depositories of the illustrious dead 
from the Norman conquest to the present time. 

Bristol Cathedral was originally the conventual 
church of an abbey founded in 1142 by Robert Fitz- 
Harding, who is said to have been nearly allied to the 
kings of Denmark, and who was the progenitor of the 
noble family of Berkeley. The monastic buildings, 
including the church, were* according to Leland, far 
advanced in 1148, when the abbey was consecrated, 
and dedicated to St. Augustine by the bishops of Wor- 
cester* Exeter, Llandaff, and St. Asaph. Fitz-Harding 
died Feb. 5, 1170. 

The monastic establishment consisted of seventeen 
persons, exclusive of sen-ants. The last abbot was 
Morgan Gwilliam ap Guilliam, who, in 1539, was 
charged with various crimes, and compelled to surren- 
der the abbey to Henry VltL The net revenue of the 
abbey at the time of the dissolution was 670/. 13$. llrf. 
Three years afterwards the abbey of St. Augustine was 
converted into the cathedral of Bristol ; the abbot waa 
superseded by a bishop ; and the sub-prior, monks, 
and novices, gave place to a dean, canons, and minor 
canons. The foundation-charter of the cathedral is 
dated June 4, 1542. The church was dedicated to the 
Holy Trinity, and the diocese was formed partly out 
of that of Salisbury by annexation of the county and 
archdeaconry of Dorset, partly out of the diocese of 
Worcester, and partly out* of that of Bath and Wells. 
The new establishment of dean and chapter was made 



[Bristol Cathedral, from the North. 2 

to consist of one dean, six canons, six minor canons 
(one of whom was to be sacrist), one deacon, six lay 
clerks, one master of the choristers, two masters of the 
grammar-school, four almsmen, one sub-sacrist (or 
sexton), and other inferior officers. 

Bristol Cathedral is in one respect singular r it has 
no nave : the choir, with its aisles, constitutes the main 
body of the church, and the transeptB and tower form 
the west end. It is probable that there was a nave, 
not only because it is evidently an essential part of the 
plan of the building, but because there are two arches, 
with clustered columns, which seem to have formed a 
part of the nave, incorporated with one of the but- 
tresses of the tower, and there is the base of a but- 
tress at some distance to the west. Still it is strange 
that there is no historic record of the existence of the 
nave, nor of the when and why it was destroyed. It 
is, however, possible that it may have been com- 
menced, but left unfinished, and the stones may have 
been carried away and used as materials for other 
buildings. 

The choir and aisles are admirably and peculiarly 
constructed. In other large churches the aisles are 
lower than the nave and choir, the walls of which are 
usually strengthened against the pressure of the roofs 
by flying buttresses, which rest upon the buttresses of 
the aisles. In Bristol Cathedral, on the contrary, the 
aisles are of the same height as the choir itself ; the 
arches of the aisles rise to the same height as the 
arches of the choir ; but to counteract the thrust of 
the centra] vaulting of the roof, horizontal buttress- 
beams, supported by arches, and sustaining insulated 
ribs and vaulting, are constructed across the aisles, 
thus allowing windows of corresponding height to be 
formed in the side walls, which light the choir as well 
as the aisles. The effect produced by this peculiar 
arrangement is in the highest degree picturesque and 
pleasing. The choir is divided from the ante-cnoir, or 
space under the tower, by a Gothic screen. The 



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curious carvings in wood which adorn the stalls of the 
choir were removed in 1542 from their original situa- 
tion near the tower. 

The great east window is very beautiful. The 
tracery of the upper part, occupying more than half 
the height of the window, is exceedingly elegant. It 
is filled with ancient stained glass, and contains twelve 
coats of arms, one in each of the compartments, en- 
closed in a circle, and ornamented with vine-leaves on 
a red ground The lower compartments of the win- 
dow contain figures holding labels, with the word 
• Propheta ' inscribed in Gothic letters, and surrounded 
with scrolls of vine-leaves and grapes on a blue and 
red ground alternately. The figures are much defaced. 
In the north window of the choir is a figure in ancient 
stained glass of a knight standing under an elegant 
Gothic canopy : he is in plated armour, with a gorget 
of mail. His arms are displayed on his shield, and on 
the pennon affixed to his spear. The choir, with its 
aisles, was built in the reign of Edward II. by Abbot 
Knowle, who was preferred to the abbacy in 1306, and 
died in 1332. A new west window was made in 1029. 

The tower is square and embattled, with pinnacles 
at the four corners. The height is 133 feet. It was 
built by Abbot Newberry in 1428, and he appears to 
have also " made anew the roofing of the whole con- 
ventual church, as well by battlements, with stones 
and pinnacles decently placed round the said church, 
as by timber, lead, and other necessaries." 

On the north side of the choir, adjoining to the north 
transept, is the Elder Lady-Chapel. It is separated 
from the transept by a pointed arch of several bold 
mouldings, some of which spring from detached co- 
lumns; and it has two communications with the aisle 
by arched openings cut through the thick wall. The 
architecture is assigned to the reign of Henry III. 
The windows have three long lancet-shaped lights 
within an arch, with slender detached pillars in front; 
and under these, on each side of the chapel, are niches 
consisting of semi-quatrefoil arches resting on slender 
pillars with capitals of foliage, &c. A variety of gro- 
tesque ornaments are carved in alto-relievo in the 
niches. The Elder Lady-Chapel is a very fine speci- 
men of early Gothic. 

The vestry, attached to the east end of the south 
aisle, was formerly a chapel belonging to the Berkeley 
family, and was built by Thomas Lord Berkeley, who 
succeeded to the barony in 1281 It is a very curious 
apartment. The Little Vestry, as it is called, is a sort 
of vestibule to the vestry. The roof is of stone, formed 
into light detached groins, and ornamented with highly- 
relieved foliage and flowers. Over the arch of the 
door leading into the vestry are some peculiar orna- 
ments resembling shells, in place of the crockets 
usually employed. 

A small chapel, called the Newton Chapel, adjoins 
the south transept on the east. 

The most ancient of the monastic buildings is the 
present chapter-house, which was also the chapter- 
nouse of the monastery. It adjoins the south trans- 
ept and Newton Chapel on the south, and has an 
entrance vestibule from the cloisters on the west. If 
restored to its original state, the chapter-house would 
be one of the most interesting apartments in the king- 
dom. It is an exceedingly fine specimen of early 
Norman of the richest character, and may probably 
be assigned to the period 1 142 — 1148, when the original 
buildings were constructed by Fitz-Harding. The 
arches are semicircular and intersecting, the columns 
are round, and the capitals, bases, string-courses, rib- 
mouldings, and mouldings on the walls, are all of the 
most decided early forms. The length of the room is 
forty-two feet, and the breadth fifteen and a half feet. In 
1713, a boarded floor was raised between two and three 



feet above the old pavement, so as to conceal the stone 
scat, which extends entirely round the room. At the 
same time modern sash-windows were inserted in two 
of the walls in the place of the old circular windows. 
The other walls were suffered to remain in their ori- 
ginal state. 

The cloisters adjoin the south transept on the west: 
only two sides remain. 

Some of the most ancient tombs in the cathedral 
have been erected to members of the Berkeley family. 
In the north and south walls of the aisles of the choir 
are eight recesses surmounted by cusped arches : two 
or three of them are empty ; the others contain each 
an effigy, one of which is that of Abbot Knowle in his 
ecclesiastical robes. 

The extreme length of the cathedral is two hundred 
and three feet; the extreme breadth is one hundred 
and twenty-seven feet 

The arched gateway which formed the entrance to 
the monastery still exists. The arch and ornamental 
mouldings are of early Norman character. In the an- 
nexed cut, the ancient window, which has given place 
to modern sashes, has been restored 



The Bishop's Palace, which was mostly modem, was 
burnt during the Bristol riots in 1831. The Deanery 
is modern. 

The bishopric of Bristol is now the bishopric of 
Gloucester and Bristol, according to the provisions of 
the act G & 7 Wm. IV. c. 77. The bishop s income is 
3700/. l 

The corporate body consists of a dean, six canons* 
and six minor canons. The net revenue is 3600/.. 
which is divided into eight sjiares, of which the dean 
has two, and the canons each one. All have residences. 



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87 



ALLOTMENT SYSTEM. 

From the Anglo-Saxon period* to the reign of Henry 
VII., nearly the entire population of England derived 
their subsistence immediately from the land. The 
great landowner consumed the produce of hie demesne, 
which was cultivated partly by pracdial slaves and by 
the labour of the tenants and cottiers attached to the 
manor. These tenants were the occupiers of small 
farms, and paid their rent in kind or in services, or in 
both. The cottagers had each a small croft or parcel 
of land attached to his dwelling, and the right ot turn- 
ing out a cow or pigs, or a few sheep, into the woods, 
commons, and wastes of the manor. While working 
upon the lord's demesne, they generally received their 
food. The occupation of the land on a farm of one 
hundred and sixty acres, called Holt, in the parish of 
Clapham, Sussex, has been traced at various dates be- 
tween the years 1200 and 1400. During the thirteenth 
and fourteenth centuries, this farm, which is now 
occupied by one tenant, was a hamlet, and there is a 
document in existence which contains twenty-one dis- 
tinct conveyances of land in fee, described to be parcels 
of this hamlet. In 1400 the number of proprietors 
began to decrease: by the year 1520 it had been re- 
duced to six ; in the reign of James I. the six were 
reduced to two; and soon after the restoration of 
Charles II. the whole became the property of one 
owner who let it as a farm to one occupier. ( Quarterly 
Revieio, No. 81, p. 250.) The history of the parish of 
Hawsted in Suffolk, by Sir T. Cullum, shows a similar 
state of things with regard to the occupancy of land. 
Jn the reign of Edward I. (1272-1307) two-thirds of 
the land in the parish, which contains one thousand 
nine hundred and eighty acres, were held by seven 
persons, and the remaining third, or six hundred and 
sixty acres, was held by twenty-six persons, which 
would give rather more than twenty-five acres to each 
holder. The number of tenants who did suit and 
service in the manorial court at a somewhat later 
period was thirty-two ; and one tenant was an occupier 
of only three acres. In the reign of Edward I. there 
were fifty messuages in the parish ; in 1784 there were 
fifty-two; in 1831 there were sixty-two, inhabited by 
eighty-ei^ht families; and in 1841 there were one 
hundred inhabited houses, the increase of population 
being from four hundred and fourteen in 1831 to four 
hundred and seventy-six in 1841. In 1831 there were 
nine occupiers of land who employed labourers, and 
two who did not hire labour. 

The consolidation of small farms in the sixteenth 
century, and the altered social state of the country 
which took place at that period from a variety of 
causes, dissevered to a great extent the labouring 
classes from the soil which they cultivated. They had 
previously produced for their own consumption, and as 
domestic manufactures were common, each household 
possessed within itself the means of satisfying its prin- 
cipal wants. They now began more generally to work 
for money wages; and in vain did the legislature 
attempt to preserve them from dependence on this 
source of subsistence, by enacting penalties against 
building any cottage •' without laying four acres of 
land thereto.'* (31 Eliz. c. 7.) There were still, how- 
ever, large tracts of waste and common lands on which 
the cottager could turn a cow, a pig, a few sheep, or 
geese, and this right still gave him a portion of sub- 
sistence directly from the land. The division and in- 
closure of these commons and wastes completed the 
process by which the labourer was thrown for his sole 
dependence on money wages. From the reign of 
George I. to the close of the reign of George III., 
about four thousand inclosure bills were passed. 
Under these allotments were made, not to the occupier, 
but the owner of a cottage, and this compensation for 



the extinguished common right generally benefited 
only the large landholder ; and when this was not the 
case, the cottager was tempted by a high price offered 
by his richer neighbours, or driven by the abuses of 
the old poor-law, to part with his patch of land. 

So long as the labourer is paid fair wages, he can 
obtain the chief necessaries or life; yet it happens 
that in most parts of the country he would be unable 
to procure any other description of vegetables, except 
potatoes, unless he had a garden attached to his cot- 
tage. No agricultural labourer's coftage should be 
without a garden where it is practicable. The cot- 
tager's garden should be large enough to enable him to 
grow sufficient vegetables of all kinds for his own con- 
sumption ; though if potatoes for winter storing can be 
purchased from his employer, or grown under the 
usual conditions on a patch of his employer's land, it 
will be as profitable as growing them himself, that is, 
if he is in full employment and obtains piece-work at 
good wages. The necessity for cultivating the land on 
his own account, further than for the purpose of 
raising sufficient vegetables for his own consumption, 
and ot looking to the allotment system as a means of 
remedying the -evil of low wages and insufficient em- 
ployment, is, in proportion to its urgency, an indication 
of the low position of the agricultural labourer. If he 
has sunk to this inferior state, and there are no other 
means of increasing his resources, the allotment system 
is then an expedient deserving of attention, and at the 
present time great expectations are entertained of what 
it is capable of doing for the labourer ; but it should 
be understood that, in an economical sense, it is a more 
satisfactory state of things when the improvement in 
the condition of the labourer arises from the prosperity 
of the farmer and his ability to give higher wages. 
The profits of the farmer and the wages of the la- 
bourer are derived from the same source, and if the 
latter are reduced to a very low point profits are 
usually low also. When improvement in the condition 
of the labourer springs from the allotment system, 
and not from the wages which he receives, it may ge- 
nerally be assumed either that the resources of the 
farmer are impaired, or that the labourers are so 
numerous that they cannot all obtain as much work as 
they are capable of performing. BuC if the allotment 
system be regarded as a means of improving the con- 
dition of the labouring class, its operation must neces- 
sarily be partial, since it cannot be rendered applicable 
to the non-agricultural labourers in the large towns ; 
and as to the agricultural labourers, there is nothing in 
their condition to prevent any pecuniary benefit from 
allotments being followed by a decline in their wages. 

The question of the advantages of the allotment 
system may be reduced within narrow limits. If it be 
understood in the sense of the definition given of it at 
the head of this article, the object is rather moral than 
economical. The allotment system may also be in- 
tended not to change the labourer into an independent 
cultivator, but to supply him with a means of making 
a living in those places where his ordinary wages arc 
not sufficient. But, as already observed, this implies 
and admits that his condition is not so good as it ought 
to be for his own and the general benefit. There is a 
superabundance of agricultural labour, or a want of 
sufficient capital invested in agriculture, in the place 
of the labourer's residence, or both causes combine to 
depress his condition. Now it is possible that the 
allotment system, if carried to any great extent, might 
contribute to increase the superabundance of labour, 
by inviting to a district more labourers than are 
wanted, or by giving them an inducement to marry 
too soon, and so ultimately to depress the condition of 
the labourer still further. It is no answer to this, that 
plots of ground have been and are cultivated by the 
labourer advantageously to himself and profitably to 



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the owner. It may he admitted that circumstances in 
any given place may be such, that the distribution of 
allotments among labourers who are not fully em- 
ployed may be of great temporary advantage to them- 
selves and to the neighbourhood. But a continual 
extension of such allotments in the same neighbour- 
hood, though it might be called for by the wants of 
the labourers, would be no benefit to tnat neighbour- 
hood, nor ultimately to the labourers themselves; for 
the end would be that many of them would be reduced 
to get their entire means of subsistence out of a small 
plot of ground. The allotment system then, if carried 
to this extent, involves the question of the advantage 
of very small farms as compared with large ones ; a 
question that cannot be discussed satisfactorily without 
a consideration of the general economic condition of 
each particular country. But it may be laid down as 
a sure principle that in a country where a large part of 
the population are employed in other pursuits than 
those of agriculture, the necessary supply of food and 
Other agricultural produce, for those who are not agri- 
culturists, cannot be raised so profitably in any way 
as by the well-instructed farmer, who has a sufficient 
capital to cultivate a large farm ; and if the whole 
country were divided into small farms, the necessary 
supply of produce for the wants of the non-agricul- 
turists would ultimately fail altogether. For if the 
small-farm system were gradually extended in propor- 
tion to the demand, the result would be that each man 
must, in the course of this distribution, have just as 
much as would raise produce enough for himself and 
his family ; and ultimately he must be content with less 
than is sufficient, and he would be reduced to the condi- 
tion of the Irishman who lives on his small plot of land. 

There is a difference between small farms of a few 
acres which are let on lease, and small farms which are 
a man's property. If all farms were divided into small 
holdings, there could be little accumulation and little 
improvement. There is the same disadvantage in 
small farms compared with great, that there is in small 
manufacturing establishments compared with large 
ones. Profitable production is carried on better on a 
large farm when proper capital is employed (and 
indeed a large farm without proper capital would ruin 
any man), than if it were divided into a number of 
§00 all farms and the same amount of capital were em- 
ployed ; for it is obvious that the amount of fixed 
capital in buildings, agricultural instruments, and ani- 
mals must be greater on the small farms than on the 
large one. There are many other considerations also 
which show that, as a matter of public economy, the 
large farms are best for the public, and consequently 
for the holders of such farms. The small farms, if 
stocked sufficiently, would pay the farmer, not equally 
well with large farms, but still they might pay him 
sufficiently well to make his investment profitable. 
But such farms are generally understocked. In fact, 
it is only in those cases where the cultivation is with 
the spade, and the land is managed like a garden, that 
such small holdings can be made profitable : the holder 
cannot, as a genera) rule, enter into competition with 
the large producer as a supplier of the market. 

In so me countries, where there are numerous small 
landholders, and it is usual for the estate to be divided 
on the death of the head of the family, the tendency 
must be, and is, to carry this division further than is 
profitable either to the community or to individuals. 
But in such case the evil may correct itself: a man 
can sell what it is not profitable to keep, and turn his 
hand to something else. The man who has been long 
attached to a small plot as a tenant, and mainly or 
entirely depends on it for his subsistence, will not 
leave it till he is turned out 

The allotment system, when limited to the giving a 
labourer a small plot of garden-ground, presents many 



advantages. But the object of making suph allot- 
ments is moral rather than economic : the cultivation 
of a few vegetables and flowers is a pleasing occupa- 
tion, and has a tendency to keep a man at home and 
from the alehouse. In many cases also, a small plot 
of ground can be cultivated by the labour of the wife 
and the young children, and a pig may be kept on the 
produce of the garden. The agricultural labour of 
young children is of very little value, but children 
may often be employed on a small plot of ground. 
Such employment is better than allowing the children 
to do nothing at all and to run about the lanes ; and if 
their labour is well directed to a small garden, it can- 
not fail to be productive, and to add greatly to the 
supply of vegetables for the family. 

Any extention of the allotment system beyond what 
a labourer can cultivate easily at his leisure hours, or 
with the assistance of his family, may be for a time a 
specious benefit, but in the end will be an injury to 
himself and to others. If a man is a labourer for hire, 
that is his vocation, and he cannot be anything else. 
If he becomes half labourer and half cultivator, he 
runs a risk of failing in both capacities ; and if he 
becomes a cultivator on a small scale, and with insuffi- 
cient capital, he must enter into competition in the 
market with those who can produce cheaper than 
himself; or he must confine himself to a bare sub- 
sistence from his ground, with little or nothing to give 
in exchange for those things which he wants and can- 
not produce himself. — Supplement to Penny Cyclopedia. 



Chinese Battue in 1711. — Haying crossed several hills, we now 
arrived in an open place, skirted by verdant heights; and in the 
early morning the stag-hunt was begun, which being conducted 
in a manner quite different from ours, I shall here describe mi- 
nutely. On tnis occasion the army consisted of twelve thousand 
soldiers, divided into two wings, one of which passed on towards 
the east, then turned northward, whilst the other proceeded to the 
west, then likewise turned in a northern direction. As they 
marched on, each man baited, so as to remain about a bow-shot 
distant from the next, till at length they surrounded the hills. 
Then, at a given word, in an instant they all advanced slowly 
towards the centre of the circle, driving the stags before them, 
and went on in this manner till one was not more than half a 
bow-shot distant from the other. Every alternate soldier now 
halted, and the next continuing to advance, two circles were 
formed, one being at a considerable distance from the other. 
After this they all moved in the same direction till the soldiers of 
the inner circle being so near as to shake hands, they divided 
again and formed a third circle; when, preserving their relative 
distances, they advauced again till the soldiers and horses of the 
iunermost circle touched each other. The inner or third circle 
was less than a bow-shot distant from the second, but the dis- 
tance from this to the cuter circle was much greater. The three 
circles having thus taken up their ultimate position, the emperor 
entered into the centre, followed by the male part of his family 
and relatives, and surrounded by the best and most expert 
hunters, armed for his defence. The ladies were conducted into 
pavilions erected upon a neighbouring hill, where they could 
view the sport without being seen. A similar situation was 
allotted to us, but we remained on horselmck. The signal being 
given, the emperor himself opened the chase by killing with his 
arrows a good number of the multitude of stags thus surrounded ; 
and when weary he gave permission to his sons and relations to 
imitate him. The stags, perceiving themselves hemmed in and 
slaughtered on all sides, attempted to escape by breaking through 
the circle ; but the soldiers, being accustomed to this, instantly 
drove them back with shouts and the noise they produced by 
striking the leather housings of the horses with their stirrups. 
Many of the stags, however, urged by pain or fear, leaped over 
the horses, or forced a passage with their horns. The soldiers 
of the second circle then endeavoured to drive them back to th* 
centre ; but if they did not succeed, those of the third were per- 
mitted to kill the fugitives. Nor were the animals that chanced 
to escape from the soldiers entirely safe, for they could then be 
destroyed by any one who might happen to meet them.— Father 
Rip*i Residence at the Court of Peking, in Murray* Home and 
Colonial Library, 



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Spknskr is the greatest of word-painters. At his bid- 
ding the misty and u amoving images of things put on 
Jife and distinctness, and forms of beauty float before 
us in all the realities of personification. Hear how he 
describes the " lusty Spring :" — 

" So forth issued the Seasons of the year. 

First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers, 
That freshly budded and hew blooms did bear, 
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers, 
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours; 
And in his hand a javelin he did bear, 
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) 
A gilt engraven morion he did wear ; 
That as some did him love, so others did him fear/' 

SrENSER. 

Poets of all time have personified the Seasons— jolly 
Spring, aged Winter, are embodied in painting or 
sculpture. It is scarcely possible to find an ordinary 
description of nature without this personification. 
Thus, a true old poet : — 

no. 830. 



" Earth now is green, and heaven is blue; 
Lively Spring, which makes all new, 

Jolly Spring doth enter ; 
Sweet young sunbeams do subdue 

Angry, aged Winter. 
Winds are mild, and seas are calm, 
Every meadow flows with balm, 

The earth wears all her riches; 
Harmonious birds sing such a psalm 

As ear and heart bewitches." 

Sir J. Davies. 

The prevailing sentiment which hails the return of 
Spring is cheerfulness. This is especially the tone of 
our elder writers, who translated the freshness of the 
external world into a feeling such as flowers and birds 
appear to express : — 

" The Winter with bis grisly storms no longer dare abide : 
The pleasant grass with lusty green the earth hath newly 
dyed} 

Vol. XIV.— N 



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The tree* have leaves, die bough* do spread, new changed is 

the year, 
The water-brooks are clean sunk down, the pleasant boughs 

appear ; 
The Spring is come, the goodly nymphs now dance in 

every place : 
Thus hath the year, most pleasantly, of lately chang'd her 

face." 

SURBEY. 

" Now each creature joys the other, 

Passing happy days and hours ; 
One bird reports unto another, 

In the fall of silver showers ; 
Whilst the earth, our common mother, 

Hath her bdsom deck'd with flowers : 
Whilst the nearest torch of heaven 

With bright rays warms Flora's lap, 
Making nights and days both even, 

Cheering plants with freshness' sap." 



Daniel. 



" The earth, late chok'd with showers, 

Is now array'd in green, 
Her bosom springs with flowers, 

The air dissolves her teen ; 
The woods are deck'd with leaves, 

And trees are clothed gav ; 
And Flora, crown' d with sheaves, 

With oaken boughs doth play. 
The birds upon the trees 

Do sing with pleasant voices, 
And chaunt in their degrees 

Their loves and lucky choices.* 



Lodge. 



The simplest description of the simplest occurrence 
of Spring,- a passing shower,— has a tone of cheerful- 
ness even when expressed by one wjio merely describes 
what he has seen : — 

" Away to that snug nook ; for the thick shower 
Rushes on stridingly. Ay, now it comes, 
Glancing about the leaves with its first drips, 
Like snatches of faint music. Joyous thrush, 
It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time 
To thy bubbling shrillness. Now it louder falls, 
Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills ; 
And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps 
With a crush of many sounds — the thrush is still. 
There are sweet scents about us ; the violet hides 
On that green bank ; the primrose sparkles there : 
The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds, 
And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses. 
But now the shower slopes to the warm west, 
Leaving a dewy track ; and see, the big drops, 
Like falling pearls, glisten in the suuny mist. 
The air is clear again, and the far woods 
Shine out in their early green. Let's onward then, 
For the first blossoms peep about our path, 
The lambs are nibbling the short dripping grass, 
And the birds are on tike bushes." 

Anon. 

But the most pleasant aspects of external nature 
may, by their opposition to a prevailing mood of the 
inner man, call mrth ideas of Melancholy ;— but even 
in the saddest expression of this feeling, there must be 
a tribute to the beauty and joyfulness which thus 
saddens by the force of contrast. We select three 
examples : — 

* " The budding floweret blushes at the light, 
The mees be sprinkled with the yellow hue, 
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight, 
The neshe young cowslip bendeth with the dew \ 
The trees euleafed, into heaven •fraught, 
• When gtutle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought. 



The evening comes, and brings the dew along, 
The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne, 
Around the alestake minstrels sing the song, 
Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine; 
I lay me on the grass : yet to my will, 
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still." 

CUATTEBTON. 

" Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green sliaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn : 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they Maw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o* the lawn, 
1 he shepherd to warn o* the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa*, 
Gie over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autumn sae pensive, iu yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidins o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa.'* 

Purks. 

"Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 

But grief returns with the revolving year ; 

The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 

The ants, the bees, the swallows, re-appear ; 

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier. 

The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 

And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 

And the green lizard, and the golden snake, 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. 

Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean, 
A quickening life from the earth's heart has burst, 
As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
From the great morning of the world when first - 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream immersed, 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a sorter light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; 
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might." 

Shbixky. 

A higher sentiment than this, not desponding, but 
solemn, not melancholy, but calm, is the Devoiiun 
which waits upon the soothing charms of the opening 
year:— 

" At Pentecost, which brings 

The Spring, clothed like a bride, 
When nestling buds unfold their wings, 
And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 
Musing upon many things, 

I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild : 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms to wild \ 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 

( Come, be a child once more !' % 
And waved their long arms to and fro, 
And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 
O, I could not choose but go 

Into the woodlands hoar. 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there* 
Kneeling at her evening prayer 1 

lake one in prayer I stoorU 



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Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous piue3 ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And where the sunshine darted through 
Spread a vapour soft and blue, 

In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower, 
The dreams of youth came back again ; 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower.* 

Longfellow. 

However varied may be the expression of the poeti- 
cal feeling,— whether the prevailing idea of the poet's 
mind be in unison with the external world of beauty, 
or not— we may be sure that the influences of nature 
have poured a balm into the recesses of the deepest 
sorrow. The tender melancholy might have been 
gloom and despair but for the admonitions without, 
that a spirit of discontent is a sin against the spirit of 
Love, that fills the earth with gladness. 



Want of Good Roads in Portugal. — The great, tne crying 
evil of Portugal — the cause which has prevented the develop- 
ment of her many valuable resources — which has been alone 
sufficient to keep her behind other countries, has been the want 
of easy communication between the different parts of the king- 
dom. As an example, to show the cause of her backward state : 
—From the badness of the roads, and the ill-construction of the 
carts, two oxen will be employed an hour in dragging goods 
two miles, which a pony on a good road would draw in a quar- 
ter of the time. Suppose, then, that a pony does not eat more 
than one ox, therefore he does the work in the same space of 
time as eight oxen, one man or boy being employed instead 
of four, or rather of eight, for the ox-carts require two attend- 
ants, a man and a boy. Thus, in truth, on a good road one boy 
with a pony and cart will do the work of eight men, eight oxen, 
and four carts in Portugal — the wear and tear of carts and roads 
being less in the former than in the latter case. Can it be sur- 
prising, then, that the Portuguese have not kept pace with the 
rest of Europe in wealth and general prosperity 1 — New Quar- 
terly Review. 

Nobles of the Olden Time. — By far the most remarkable and 
significant event in the whole history of Anglo-Saxon commerce, 
is the law passed in the reign of King Athelstan, in the second 
quarter of the tenth century, by which it was enacted that every 
merchant who should have made three voyages over the sea with 
a ship and cargo his own should have the rank of a thane or 
nobleman. The liberality of this law has usually been ascribed 
exclusively to the enlightened judgment of Athelstan ; but we 
are entitled to presume that it must have been also in some de- 
gree in accordance with the general feeling of the country ; for, 
not to mention that it must have been passed with the consent of 
the Wittenagemot, it is unlikely that so able and prudent as 
well as popular a monarch as Athelstan would have attempted 
in regard to such a matter to do violence to public opinion, with- 
out the acquiescence and support of which the measure could 
have had little efficacy or success. We may take this decree 
conferring the honours of nobility upon commerce, therefore, as 
testifying not only U> the liberality and wisdom of Athelstan, 
but also to the estimation in which commerce had already 
come to be held among the English people. It may be regarded 
as a proof that the Anglo-Saxons had never entertained much of 
that prejudice against the pursuits of trade, which we find so 
strongly manifested during the middle ages, wherever the political 
and social institutions were moulded upon, and fully animated 
by, the spirit of the feudal system. — ' History of British Com" 
meree,' — Knighfs Weekly Volume. 



Chaucer* 8 Poetry.— The poetry of Chaucer is really, in all 
essential respects, about the greenest and freshest in our language. 
We have some higher poetry than Chaucer's— poetry that has 
more of the character of a revelation, or a voice from another 
world : we have none in which there is either a more abandoning 
or a more bounding spirit of life, a truer or fuller natural inspira- | 



tion. He may be said to verify, in another sense, the remark oi 
Bacon, that what we commonly call antiquity was really the 
youth of the world : his poetry seems to breathe of a time when 
humanity was younger and more joyous-hearted than it now is. 
Undoubtedly he had an advantage as to this matter, in having 
been the first great poet of his country. Occupying this ]>osition, 
he stands in some degree between each of his successors and na- 
ture. The sire of a nation's minstrelsy is of necessity, though it 
may be unconsciously, regarded by all who come after him as 
almost a portion of nature — as one whose utterances are not so 
much the echo of hers as in very deed her own living voice — 
carrying in them a spirit as original and divine as the music of 
her running brooks, or of her breezes among the leaves. And 
there is not wanting something of reason in this idolatry. It is 
he alone who has conversed with nature directly, and without an 
interpreter— who has looked upon the glory of her countenance 
unveiled, and received upon his heart the perfect image of what 
she is — Knight's Weekly Folume, « Literature and Learning in 
England.' 

Method cf arresting the Sands in the Plains of Gascony. — 
Once aware of the fact that certain plants throve in the sands of 
downs, Bremontier saw that they alone were capable of staying 
their progress and consolidating them. The grand object was to 
get plants to grow in moving sand, and to protect them from the 
violent winds which blow off the ocean, until their roots had got 
firm hold of .the soil. Downs do not bound the ocean like 
beaches. From the base of the first hillocks to the line which 
marks the extreme height of spring-tides, there is always a level 
over which the sand sweeps without pausing. It was upon this 
level space that Bremontier sowed his first belt of pine and furze- 
seeds, sheltering it by means of green branches, fixed by forked 
pegs to the ground, and- in such a way that the wind should 
have least hold upon them, viz. by turning the lopped extremi- 
ties towards the wind. Experience has shown that, by proceeding 
thus, fir and furze-seeds not only germinate, but that the young 
plants grow with such rapidity, that by and by they form a 
thick belt, a yard and more in height. Success is now certain. 
The plantation, so fur advanced, arrests the sand as it comes from 
the bed of the sea, and forms an effectual barrier to the other 
belts that are made to succeed it towards the interior. When 
the trees are five or six years of age, a new plantation is made 
contiguous to the first and more inland, from two hundred to 
three hundred feet in breadth ; and so the process is carried on, 
until the summits of the hillocks are gradually attained. It 
was by proceeding in this way that Bremontier succeeded in 
covering the barreu sands of the Arrachon basin with useful trees. 
Begun in 1787, the plantations iu 1809 covered a surface of 
between 9000 and 1 0,000 square acres. The success of these 
plantations surpassed all expectation : in sixteen years the pine- 
trees were from thirty-five to forty feet in height. Nor was the 
growth of the furze, of the oak, of the cork, of the willow, less 
rapid. Bremontier showed for the first time in the annals of 
human industry, that movable sands might not only be stayed 
in their desolating course, but actually rendered productive* — 
Law's Translation of Boussinyault's Rural Economy. 



Economical and Scientific Cookery. — The stock-pot of th* 
French artizan, says Monsieur Care me, supplies his principal 
nourishment; and it is thus managed by his wife, who, without 
the slightest knowledge of chemistry, conducts the process in a 
truly scientific manner. She first lays the meat into her earth em 
stoefc-pot, and pours cold water to it in the proportion of about 
two quarts to three pounds of the beef; she then places it by the 
side of the fire, where it slowly becomes hot ; and as it does so 
the heat enlarges the fibres of the meat, dissolves the gelatinous 
substances which it contains, allows the albumen (or the muscu- 
lar part which produces the scum) to disengage itself, and rise 
to the surface, and the ozmazome (which is the most savoury 
part of the meat) to be diffused through the broth. Thus, from 
the simple circumstance of boiling it in the gentlest manner, a 
relishing and nutritious soup will be obtained, and a dish of tender 
and palatable meat ; but if the pot be placed and kept over a 
quiet fire, the albumen will coagulate, harden the meat, prevent 
the water from penetrating it and the ozmazome from disengag- 
ing itself; the result will be a broth without flavour or goodness 
and a tough, dry bit of meat. — Miss Acton's Modern Cookery. 



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[Ooneftgfeb and oopy of hit Si. John the BvingelirtO 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 
PAINTERS.— No. XXXVI. 

CORREGQIO AND GlORGlONK, AND THEIR SCHOLARS. 

Whilb the great painters of the Florentine school, 
with Michael Angelo at their head, were carrying out 
the principle of form, and those of Rome— the fol- 
lowers ana imitators of Raphael — were carrying; out 
the principle of expression, and the first school deviat- 
ing into exaggeration, and the latter degenerating 
into mannerism, there arose in the north of Italy two 
extraordinary and original men who, guided by their 
own individual genius and temperament, took up dif- 
ferent principles and worked them out to perfection. 
One revelling in the illusions of chiaroscuro, so that to 
him all nature appeared clothed in a soft transparent 
veil of lights and shadows ; the other delighting in the 



luxurious depth of tints, and beholding all nature 
steeped in the glow of an Italian sunset. They chose 
each their world, and •' drew after them a third part of 
heaven." 

Of the two, Giorgione appears te have been the 
most original — the niost of a creator and inventor. 
Correggio may possibly have owed his conception of 
melting, vanishing, outlines, and transparent shadows, 
and his peculiar feeling of grace, to Lionardo da Vinci, 
whose pictures were scattered over the whole of the 
north of Italy. Giorgione found in his own fervid me- 
lancholy character the mystery of his colouring— warm, 
glowing, yet subdued— and the noble yet tender senti- 
ment of his heads; characteristics which, transmitted 
to Titian, became, in colouring, more sunshiny and bril- 
liant, without losing depth and harmony ; and in express 
sion, more cheerful, still retaining intellect and dignity. 



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We will speak first of Correggio, so styled from his 
birth- place, a small town not far from Modena, now 
called tyeggio. His real name was Antonio Allegri, and 
he was born towards the end of the year 1493. Raphael 
was at this time ten years old, Michael Angelo twenty, 
and Lionardo da Vinci in his fortieth year. The father 
of Antonio was Pellegrino Allegri, a tradesman pos- 
sessed of moderate property in houses and land. He 
gave his son a careful education, and had him instructed 
in literature and rhetoric, as well as in the rudiments of 
art, which he imbibed at a very early age from an uncle, 
Lorenzo Allegri, a painter of little merit. Afterwards 
he studied for a short time under Andrea Mantegna ; 
and although, when this painter died in 1506, Antonio 
was but thirteen, he had so far profited by his instruc- 
tions and those of Francesco Mantegna, who continued 
his father's school, that he drew well and caught that 
taste and skill in foreshortening which distinguished his 
later works ; it was an art which Mantegna may almost 
be said to have invented, and which was first taught in 
his academy ; but the dry, hard, precise, meagre style 
of the Mantegna school, Correggio soon abandoned 
for a manner entirely his own, in which movement, 
variety, and above all the most delicate gradation of 
light and shadow, are the principal elements. All these 
qualities are apparent in the earliest of his authen- 
ticated pictures painted in 1512, when he was about 
eighteen. It is one of the large altar-pieces in the 
Dresden gallery, called the Madonna di San Francesco, 
because St. Francis is one of the principal figures. 
The influence of the taste and manner of Lionardo da 
Vinci is very conspicuous in this picture. 

In 1519, having acquired some reputation and for- 
tune in his profession, Correggio married Girolama 
Merlini ; and in the following year, being then six and 
twenty, he was commissioned to paint in fresco the 
cupola of the church of San Giovanni at Parma. He 
chose for his subject the Ascension of Christ, who in the 
centre appears soaring upwards into heaven, surrounded 
by the Twelve Apostles, seated around on clouds, and 
who appear to be watching his progress to the realms 
above; below are the four Evangelists in the four 
arches, with the four Fathers of the Church. The 
figures in the upper part are of course colossal and 
foreshortened with admirable skill, so as to produce a 
wonderful effect when viewed from below. In the absis 
of the same church, over the high altar, he painted the 
Coronation of the Virgin, but this was destroyed when 
the church was subsequently enlarged, and is now only 
known through engravings and the copies made by 
Annibal Carracci, which are preserved at Naples. For 
this work Correggio received 500 gold crowns, equal 
to about 1500/. at the present day. 

Passing over, for the present, a variety of works 
which Correggio painted in the next four or five years* 
we shall only observe that the Cupola of San Giovanni 
gave so much satisfaction that he was called upon to 
decorate in the same manner the cathedral of Parma, 
which is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. And in the 
centre of the dome he represented the Assumption— 
the Madonna soaring into heaven while Christ de- 
scends from his throne in bliss to meet her: an innu- 
merable host of saints and angels, rejoicing and singing 
hymns of triumph, surround these principal personages. 
Lower down in a circle stand the Apostles, and lower 
still Genii bearing candelabra and swinging censers. 
In lunettes below are the four Evangelists, the figure 
of St. John in our illustrations being one of the finest. 
The whole composition is full of glorious life ; won- 
derful for the relief, the bold and perfect fore- 
shortening, the management of the chiaroscuro ; but 
from the innumerable figures, and the play of the limbs 
6een from below — legs and arms being more con- 
spicuous than bodies— the great artist was reproached 



in his lifetime with having painted " un guazzetto di 
rane" (a hash of frogs). Tliere are several engrav- 
ings of this magnificent work ; but those who would 
form a just idea of Correggio's sublime conception and 
power of drawing should see some of the Cartoons pie- 
pared for the frescos and drawn in chalk by Correg- 
gio's own hand. A few of these, representing chiefly 
angels and cherubim, were discovered a few years ago 
at Parma, rolled up in a garret : they were conveyed to 
Rome, thence brought to England by Dr. Braun, and 
they are now (or were very lately) in the possession of 
Mr. Herz of Great Marlborough Street. These heads 
and forms are gigantic, nearly twice the size of life ; yet 
such is the excellence of the drawing, and the perfect 
grace and sweetness of the expression, that they strike 
the fancy as sublimely beautiful, without giving the 
slightest impression of exaggeration or effort. Our 
artists who are preparing cartoons for works on a large 
scale could have no finer studies than these grand 
fragments, emanations of the mind and creations of the 
hand of one of the most distinguished masters in art. 
They show his manner of setting to work, and are in 
this respect an invaluable lesson to young painters. 

Correggio finished the dome of the cathedral of Parma 
in 1530, and returned to his native town, where he 
resided for the remainder of his life. We find that in 
the year 1593 he was one of the witnesses to a mar- 
riage which was celebrated in the castle of Correggio, 
between Ippolito, Lord of Correggio, and son of Veronica 
Gam bar a, the illustrious poetess (widow of Ghibertoda 
Correggio), and Cbiara da Correggio his cousin. Cor- 
reggio's presence on this occasion and his signature to 
the marriage deed prove the estimation in which he 
was held by his sovereigns. In the following year he 
had engaged to paint for Alberto Panciroli an altar- 
piece; the subject fixed upon is not known, but it is 
certainly known that he received in advance, and 
before his work was commenced, twenty-five gold 
crowns. It was destined never to be begun, for 60on 
after signing this agreement Correggio was seized with 
a malignant fever, of which he died after a few days 
illness, March 5th, 1534, in the 41st year of his age. 
He was buried in his family sepulchre in the Francis- 
can convent at Correggio, and a few words placed over 
his tomb merely record the day of his death, and his 
name and profession — ** Maestro Antonio Allegri, 

DEPINTOKE. ,, 

There is a tradition that Correggio was a self- 
educated painter, unassisted except by his own tran- 
scendent genius ; that he lived in great obscurity and 
indigence, and that he was ill remunerated for his 
works. And it is further related, that having been 
paid in copper coin a sum of sixty crowns for one of 
his pictures, he carried home this load in a sack on his 
shoulders, being anxious to relieve the wants of his 
family, and stopping, when heated and wearied, to re- 
fresh himself with a draught of cold water, he was seized 
with a fever, of which he died. Though this tradition 
has been proved to be false, and is completely refuted 
by the circumstances of the last years of his life above 
related, yet the impression that Correggio died miser- 
ably and in indigence prevailed to a late period.* From 
whatever cause it arose it was early current. Annibal 
Carracci, writing from Parma fifty years after the 
death of Correggio, says, " 1 rage and Weep to think 
of the fate of this poor Antonio ; so great a man — if, 
indeed, he were not rather an angel in the flesh— to be 
lost here, to live unknown, and to die unhappily!" 
Now he who painted the dome of the cathedral of 
Parma, and who stood by as one of the chosen witnesses 

* The death of Correggio is the subject of a very beautiful 
tragedy by (Ehlenschlager, of which there is a critical account, 
with translations, in one of the early volumes of ' Blackwood's 
Magazine/ 



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of the marriage of his sovereign, could not have lived 
unknown and unregarded ; and we have no justreapon 
to suppose that this gentle, amiable, and unambitious 
man died unhappily*. With regard to his deficient 
education, it appears certain that he studied anatomy 
under Lombardi, a famous physician of that time, and 
his works exhibit not only a classical and cultivated 
taste but a knowledge of the sciences — of optics, ma- 
thematics, perspective, and chemistry, as far as they 
were then carried. His use and skilful preparation 
of rare and expensive colours imply neither poverty 
nor ignorance. His modest, quiet, amiable temper 
and domestic habits may have given rise to the report 
that he lived neglected and obscure in his native city ; 
and he had not, like other great masters of his time, an 
academy for teaching, and a retinue of scholars to 
spread bis name and contend for the supremacy of 
their master. Whether Correggio ever visited Rome 
is a point undecided by any evidence for or against, 
and it is most probable that he did not. It is said that 
he was at Bologna when he saw Raphael's * St. Cecilia,' 
and, after contemplating it for some time with admira- 
tion, he turned away exclaiming, "and I too am a 
painter (auch'io sono pittore)!" an anecdote which 
shows that, if unambitious and un presuming, he was 
not without a consciousness of his own merit. 

The father of Correggio, Pellegrino Allegri, who 
survived him, repaid the twenty-five gold crowns 
which his son had received in advance for work he did 
not live to complete. The only son of Correggio, Pom- 
ponio Quirino Allegri, became a painter, but never 
attained to any great reputation, and appears to have 
been of a careless, restless disposition. 



THE TARANTULA SPIDER.-No. I. 

Thk Tarantula, or Tarentula, is a large spider, first 
observed in the neighbourhood of Taranto in Italy, 
and which has become celebrated on account of the 
power it was supposed to possess of inflicting a fatally 
venomous wound— the effects of which were only to 
be cured by music. There is much that is interesting 
both in the fabulous and the real history of this spider, 
and we shall therefore separate the one from the 
other, presenting our readers first with the fable, 
secondly with the fact. 

The table runs thus: — During the summer months, 
when the Italian peasants often sleep in the open fields, 
they are peculiarly subject to the bite, or rather to the 
wound, of the tarantula. Women also, who travel 
through the country bare-footed, gathering medicinal 
herbs, suffer in the same way. The creature pierces 
the skin with its forceps, and at that instant injects 
from its mouth a poison into the wound. The bite 
occasions a pain like that of the sting of a bee or an 
ant, but in a few hours the effects become serious. 
The patient feels a numbness, and the part affected 
exhibits a small livid circle, which soon becomes a 
very painful tumour. Sadness and difficulty of breath- 
ing speedily ensue, the pulse grows feeble, the senses 
fail ; and unless some method of relief can be found, 
the patient dies. All these symptoms vary according 
to the species of tarantula from which the wound has 
been received, or the particular constitution of the 
person attacked. A curious train of symptoms is 
recorded as occurring, under varying forms, in the 
case of each individual. The patient sees a thousand 
phantoms, consisting cither of delightful or of horrible 
images. One man will be military-mad, calling out 
for the noise of trumpets and drums, and the clashing 
of swords; another will delight in slow and graceful 
movements, as walking majestically, bowing, and 
dancing slow tunes; one will insist on having trick- 
ling streams of water always before him ; another is 



not happy out of the sight of green leaves. Amidst 
these particular symptoms there is a generally pre- 
vailing one of dislike for certain colours, as black and 
blue, and an affection for certain others, as white, red, 
and green. 

Medicine has been consulted in vain to discover a 
remedy ; cordials, sudorifics, and various applications 
to the wound were of no avail : " a thing that avails 
infinitely more is what reason could never have dis- 
covered — music. ' ' 

As soon as the patient has lost his sense and motion 
a musician tries several tunes on an instrument ; and 
when he has hit on one whose modulations agree with 
the patient, the latter is immediately seen to make a 
faint motion : his fingers first begin to move in cadence, 
then his arms, then his legs, and by degrees his whole 
body; at length he rises on his feet, and begins to 
dance; his strength and activity still increasing. 
Some will continue the dance for six hours without 
intermission. 

After this the patient falls exhausted, and is put to 
bed until he is judged sufficiently recruited to bear 
similar exertion. He is then called from his bed by 
the same tune, and renews his dance with the utmost 
energy. This exercise continues at intervals for six 
or seven days at least ; at the end of which period the 
patient finds himself utterly exhausted and unable to 
dance any longer. This is a sign tliat his cure is com- 
plete ; for as long as the poison continued to act, he 
would dance, if called by the power of music to do so, 
until he died from mere loss of strength. 

On his recovery the patient awakes, as if from a pro- 
found sleep, without any remembrance of what has 
passed, or any knowledge of his extraordinary dance. 
Sometimes, when he has not received a complete cure, 
a melancholy gloom hangs over his mind ; he shuns 
the sight of men, and seeks water, and if he be not 
carefully looked after, he throws himself into some 
river. If he do not die, the fit returns at that time 
twelvemonth, and he is driven to dancing again. 
Some have had returns regularly for twenty or thirty 
years. The tunes which are so efficacious in the cure 
of this strange malady are of the most lively and ener- 

?;etic description. Each tarantula, according to the 
able, has his own particular tune, and the musician 
has to discover what it is before he can be of any use 
to the afflicted person. But if he can once hit upon 
the fortunate strain, not only does the patient get up 
and dance to the sound of any instrument, but the 
tarantula itself dances all the while to the same air 
with the person bitten. 

The accounts from which wo have gathered this 
fable were given by Balgivi in 1696, and by M. Geof- 
frey in 1702. We find the latter writer gravely pro- 
pounding a theory on the subject of the T>ite and its 
cure. He conceives that the poisonous juice injected 
by the tarantula may give the nerves a degree of ten- 
sion greater than is natural to them, or than is propor- 
tionate to their functions, and hence may arise a 
privation of knowledge and motion. But at the same 
time this tension, equal to that of some strings of an 
instrument, puts the nerves in unison to certain tones, 
and obliges them to shake, after being agitated by the 
undulations and vibrations of the air proper to those 
tones. And hence this wonderful cure by music ; the 
nerves, thus restored to their motion, call back the 
spirits thither, which before had abandoned them. 
On the same principles the patient's aversion to colours 
is accounted for. The tension of the nerves, even out 
of the paroxysm, being different to what it is in the 
natural state, the vibrations those colours occasion in 
the fibres of the brain are contrary to their disposition, 
and occasion dissonance, the effect of which is pain. 
Other writers have given opinions of a similar cha- 



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racter, and it is remarkable that men of reputed 
learning: and skill were for a long time contented to 
search for theories to account for these fables, rather 
than to sift the whole affair, and to test by experiments 
the accuracy of the story. At length the common 
sense of medical men was no longer to be imposed on, 
and some investigations made by a Dr. Seras, com- 
pletely opened the eyes of the Neapolitan physicians. 
A positive contradiction to the statements made by 
Balgivi and others, was given by Dr. Civillo, Professor 
of Natural History at the university of Naples. This 
gentleman had an opportunity of observing the effects 
of the spider's bite in the province of Taranto, where 
it is found in great abundance. He affirms that the 
surprising cure of the bite of the tarantula by music 
has not the least truth in it ; and that it is only an 
invention of the people who want to get a little money 
by dancing when they say the tarantism is upon them. 
The heat of the climate is likely, in the opinion of this 
writer, to warm their imaginations, and to throw them 
into a delirium, which may in some measure be cured 
by music ; but after repeated experiments with the 
tarantula, no other effect nas occurred to either men or 
animals than a slight inflammation of the wounded 
part, which goes oft after a time without the applica- 
tion of any remedy. In Sicily, where the summers 
are still warmer, the tarantula is never dangerous, and 
music is never employed for the cure of the pretended 
tarantism. And in the province where it has appeared, 
through the craft of the peasantry, to be a real dis- 
order, it is daily losing ground, arid will soon cease to 
gain credit from any one. Nevertheless it is very 
possible that the disease feigned by the peasants may 
have been copied in the more striking symptoms from 
some complaint of a similar nature with St. Vitus's 
dance, which may have existed quite independently of 
the influence of the spider. 



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95 



SPURS. 

The time when spurs were invented or first introduced 
is unknown. "Common sense points out that they 
must be nearly coeval with the art of riding on horse- 
back ; a man kicking a dull or tired horse would soon 
discover he stood in need of a more powerful stimulus 
than his heels ; and it does not seem to require any 
extraordinary effort of genius to invent and fix to the 
feet some kind of spur or goad." (Grose.) 

The ancient Greeks were acquainted with the use of 
spurs, and had coverings for their legs similar to our 
boots ; indeed, the leathern boot with its top turned 
over the calf of the leg, appears on one of the young 
horsemen among the Elgin Marbles. 

That the Romans had spurs, at least as early as the 
Augustan age, is proved by the testimony of several 
writers, such as Virgil, Livy, Plautus, and others. 
Cicero uses the word calcar to signify a spur : he also 
uses it metaphorically, as " this man wants a bridle, 
that one a spur," intimating that one was too quick and 
the other too slow. It is also used metaphorically by 
English writers : thus Spenser in ' The Teares of the 
Muses,' says— 

M Or who would ever care to do brave deed, 

Or strive in virtue others to excel ; 
If none should yield him bis deserved meed, 

Due praise, that is the spur of doing well V 

It has been considered remarkable that among the 
many equestrian figures of the ancient Romans that 
have been preserved, none of the riders are represented 
with spurs ; but it has been explained that the Romans 
did not use boots similar to ours, but rode as the 
Asiatics usually do at this time, in a kind of sandals 
and pantaloons, on the former of which spurs could 



not be conveniently fixed. The stirrup used by the 
natives of Asia is of a very different form from the 
European one, boing oblong and nearly the length of 
the foot, with a ridge on each side. From the re- 
semblance to some of their dishes, it is called by the 
same name, " Ruckab." On the hinder part of this 
stirrup, which comes under the heel, a spike is often 
fixed, which answers the purpose of our spur. 

The equestrian figures on the great seals of most of 
our kings and ancient barons from the Conquest to the 
time of Edward III., are represented with spurs con- 
sisting of only one point, somewhat resembling the 
gaffle with which fighting cocks are armed. Mont- 
faucon says that the ancient spurs were small points 
of iron fastened to a little plate of metal fixed to the 
shoe in the side of the heel, and that in his time the 
peasants of France wore such. To such a description 
of spur does he suppose reference to be made in the 
Acts of the Apostles, ix. 5 : •• It is hard for thee to 
kick against the pricks." A similar expression is used 
by Terence, who says, *• Contra stimulum ne calces." 
Montfaucon also £ives a drawing of an ancient spur 
consisting of a point fixed to an iron semicircle, con- 
trived so as to book upon the shoe. Such a description 
of spur i3 given in Fig. 1 ; it has an ornamental masque 

Fi 9- 1- fS^ 




at the crooked end ; but its antiquity has been ques- 
tioned. Caylus has published an ancient bronze spur 
composed of a solid point fixed upon a semicircle, the 
extremities of which are pierced to receive the thongs 
which fastened the spur to the foot. 

Blount mentions* spur consisting of only one point, 
but of great length and thickness, which he calls a 
pryck % and cites a charter of 1 Richard II. of certain 
lands held by Sir Nicholas de Lang for de in Kin-vald- 
mersh, Derby, by the service of finding one horse, one 
sack, and one pryck for the king's wars in Wales. He 
likewise adds that this sort of spur was worn by a body 
of light horsemen in the reign of Henry VIII., thence 
called prickers. But Mr. Grose thinks it doubtful 
whether the pryck mentioned in this and other charters 
does not mean a goad, such as is used for driving 
oxen. 

This description of spur, consisting of a single point 
or pryck, is found on many of our ancient monuments 
A very elegant specimen, taken from the figure of the 
Earl of Cornwall in Westminster Abbey, is shown in 
Fig. 3. 

Fig. 4 is a representation of a spur discovered in 
the year 1787, by some workmen while quarrying for 
stone at Mount Sorrel in Leicestershire. In the 
'Gentleman's Magazine' for that year, it is described 
in the following terms : — % * The spur is of cast-copper, 
and has been gilt, which is still visible in the engraved 
strokes of the mosaic. Instead of a rowel at the neck, 
there is a pointed knob much blunted by the hand of 
time. The place where it was dug up is part of the 
site of the old castle. Saer de Quincy, Earl ot Win* 



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cheater, defended this castle against King Henry III., 
hut it was taken and rased to the ground by Kanulf, 
Earl of Chester, anno 1217. This spur probably be- 
longed to some knight or other warrior then present, 
who during the siege might be slain, and buried on 
the spot, as was the custom, in his boots and spurs." 

Sir Walter Scott, in his graceful poem of the ' Lady 
of the Lake,' seems to have armed the heel of his hero 
with the single-pointed spur : — 

" Stand, Bayard, stand ! The steed obeyM, 
With arching neck and bended head, 
And glancing eye and quivering ear, 
As if he loved his lord to hear. 
No foot Fiti-James in stirrup staid, 
No grasp upon the saddle laid, 
But wreathed his left hand in the mane, 
And lightly bounded from the plain, 
Turn'd on the horse his armed Heel, 
And stirr'd his courage with the steel 
Bounded the fiery steed in air, 
The rider sat erect and fair, 
Then, like a bolt from steel cross-bow 
Forth launch'd, alon£ the plain they go. 
They dath'd that rapid torrent through, 
And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
Still at the gallop prick'd the knight; 
His merry* men follow'd as they might." 

(To be continued.] 



Gigantic Donkey* — I must not omit to mention, in reference 
to Malta, the gigantic donkeys we constantly meet with, as the 
original breed comes from thence, where the largest are still to 
be found. Those seen about the streets of Valetta vary from 
thirteen co fourteen hands high. One was brought for us to look 
at the other day, bred at Goto, full fourteen hands, although only 
three years old, and for which the owner asked two hundred dol- 
lars, or forty pounds. Its coat was beautifully soft and glossy; 
and, were it not for its shape and long ears, one would scarcely 
have imagiued it to be related to the poor degraded donkeys of 
our clime. — Mr*. Griffith'* Journey. 



Elephant Combats, — A wall of earth is raised three or four 
French feet wide, and five or six high. The two ponderous 
beasts meet one another face to face, on opposite sides of the 
wall, each having a couple of riders, that the place of the man 
who sits on the shoulders, for the purpose of guiding the elephant 
with a large iron hook, may immediately be supplied, if he 
should be thrown down. The riders animate the elephants either 
by soothing words or by chiding them as cowards, and urge them 
on with their heels, until the poor creatures approach the wall, 
and are brought to the attack. The shock is tremendous, and it 
appears surprising tnat they ever survive the dreadful wounds 
and blows inflicted with their teeth, their heads, and their trunks. 
There are frequent pauses during the tight : it is suspended and 
renewed ; and the mud wall being at length thrown down, the 
stronger or more courageous elephant passes on and attacks his 
opponent, and putting him to flight, pursues and fastens upon 
him with so much obstinacy that the animals can be separated 
only by means of cherkys, or fire-works, which are made to ex- 
plode between them ; for they are naturally timid, and have a 
particular dread of fire, which is the reason why elephants have 
been used with so very little advantage in armies since the use 
of fire-arms. The boldest come from Ceylon, but none are em- 
ployed in war which have not been regularly trained and accus- 
tomed for years to the discharge of muskets close to their 
heads, and the bursting of crackers between their leg*.— Knight's 
Weekly Folwm, ' The Elephant: 



Flax- Cultivation. — The advantages resulting from flax-culti- 
vation are daily becoming more highly appreciated in Ireland, 
where the quantity grown has more than doubled within the last 
few years ; and it is every year increasing, under the auspices of 
a society instituted expressly for the purpose of encouraging its 
growth. In Holland and in Belgium, and in some of the Prus- 
sian states, Stat is also extensively cultivated, that* being hardly 



a farm, however small, on which flax is not grown, and it is 
held to be the most profitable of all their crops. In addition to 
the profit which in a pecuniary sense would arise from the culti- 
vation of flax in this country, another very important advantage 
would be obtained, for it would afford a large amount of em- 
ployment, more especially for females, in those rural districts 
where employment is at present most needed. The various 
operations connected with the management of flax require many 
hands, and much of the work may be performed by females. If 
flax were generally grown, employment at once suitable and pro- 
fitable would be found in its preparation for the female popula- 
tion of our villages and rural parishes, without resorting to 
common field-labour, as they are now too often compelled to do; 
and this would doubtless be a great benefit, socially and morally. 
Our rural population is generally found to be most abundant, 
and not unfrequently most in excess, in those districts where 
the farms are small ; and it is to these districts that the culti- 
vation of flax is more especially suited, and where it would 
confer the greatest benefit. The farms in Belgium are univer- 
sally small, from 20 to 60 acres being about the average, but 
many are under 10 acres. In Ireland the holdings are likewise 
small ; and in both countries the population is great in proportion 
to the area. In both countries likewise the cultivation of flax is 
found to be highly profitable, and to afford beneficial employ- 
ment to tne people. 1 do not mean to discuss the comparative 
advantages and disadvantages of large and small farms ; but I 
may venture to remark, that neither small farms exclusively nor 
large farms exclusively, appear to me to be desirable, but rather 
an admixture of both. By such admixture, a gradation of em- 
ployment is found for different degrees of fanning skill and 
capital, and a stimulus to exertion is held out to the man with 
small beginnings, who may hope, as his knowledge and his 
means increase, to rise progressively in his profession, from a 
farm of 30 to one of 50 and 100 acres. If farms were either all 
large, or all small, this incentive to exertion would be wanting. 
If small, there would be no room for improvement or extension; 
and if large, the man of slender means, however skilful and 
industrious, would look hopelessly above him: there would be 
no intermediate steps, no gradation by which he might hope to 
climb upwards to a farm of 1 00, 200, or 500 acres ; and he 
would too probably sink back into inertness, if not into despond- 
ency. A variety in the size of farms, proportioned to the various 
amounts of skill and capital of the farmers, appears therefor.' 
the most desirable for all classes. This variety exists, with few 
exceptions, throughout England, and coupled with the circum- 
stances of our rural population, cannot but be considered as 
favourable to the introduction of flax culture. The Belgians 
and Dutch are very skilful in the cultivation of flax, and Fle- 
mish flax bears a high price in the market. In Ireland until 
recently, the cultivation was much neglected, and the flax raised 
was of a very inferior quality. This was not so much owing to 
the inferior nature of the plant, as to the mode of managing it 
after it was drawn ; and the society which was established a few 
years ago in the north of Ireland for encouraging the growth and 
improving the preparation of flax, directed its earliest attention 
to correct this defective management. They brought over skilful 
cultivators from Belgium to instruct the people ; and afterwards, 
finding that this was not sufficient for the purpose, they selected 
a number of intelligent young men, and sent them to Belgium 
to learn the Flemish mode of cultivating and preparing the flax; 
and the result has been, that not only has the quantity of flax 
grown greatly increased since the society commenced its opera- 
tions, but the quality of the flax has likewise greatly improved ; 
and Ireland may now look forward, at no very distant day, to 
produce as much as she requires of this the great staple of bet 
manufactures. Can we doubt that what has thus, it may be 
said within a recent period, been done in Ireland, ought also to 
be done in England? The soil and climate are at least as 
favourable for the growth of flax here as they are there, or as 
they are in either Holland or Belgium. Instructors may readily 
be obtained from either of these countries, or persons might be 
sent from hence to learn the various processes, and on their return 
they might impart instructions to others. The result would, I 
am confident, amply repay the outlay by the benefits it would 
confer, and the art once acquired would not be in danger of 
being lost. — From a Paper by O. Nicholb, E*q. t m the Journal o/ 
the Royal Agricultural Society* 



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[Hudibru and the Goblins.] 



HUDIBftAS.— No. XII. 



Thb Third Part of * Hudibras,' on which we are now 
about to enter, was not published till 1678, .fifteen 
years after the appearance of the first part. The sub- 
ject is not concluded, nor perhaps was it ever the 
author's intention to make a formal ending. It is 
evident that, commencing the poem, he had con- 
structed a very slight fable, more for the purpose of 
holding together the numerous episodes and miscel- 
laneous discussions, than for the effect of any interest 
to be derived from it iri itself. In fact, the same per- 
sonages being carried through the poem, and their 
characters consistently preserved, form the sustaining 
links which connect the different parts into a whole. 
But even this is not strictly attended to ; the author 
discards even them when it suits his humour. This is 
particularly apparent in the Second Canto of the pre- 
sent Part, which avowedly leaves the heroes altogether ; 
the First Canto concluding, 

" Let us leave 'em for a time, 
And to their Churches turn our rhyme ; 
To hold forth their declining state, 
Which now come near ah even rate.' : 

It is possible, however, that a longer life might have 
made additions to the poem, though it might have been 
no nearer a conclusion ; but the author died in about 

no. 831. 



two years from the appearance of this part, and, it is 
to be feared, in great poverty and distress. He had 
spoken too boldly and impartially to be the favourite 
of a party, though on terms of familiar intercourse 
with many eminent men. In his private affairs he 
appears to have been unfortunate, though unaccom- 
panied by any blameabie imprudence. 

The subject of the First Canto of this Part cannot be 
better told than in the author's own " argumetit :" — 

" The knight and squire resolve at once, 
The one the other to renounce ; 
They both approach the lady's bower, 
The squire t' inform, the knight to woo her. 
She treats them with a masquerade, 
By furies and hobgoblins made : 
From which the squire conveys the knight, 
And steals him, from himself, by night." 

But though this is all the action of tlie canto, a great 
part of it is filled with disquisitions on love and mar- 
riage. Respecting the first, the poet begins by ridi- 
culing those lovers who, by elevating their mistresses 
to stars or deities, ensure to themselves scorn and 
ill-treatment, by " trusting those they made her kin- 
dred." 

" 'T is true, no lover has that pow'r 
T' enforce a desperate amour, 

Vol. XIV.— O 



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A§ he that has two strings to 's bow, 

And burns for lore and money too ; 

For then he's brave and resolute, 

Disdains to render in his suit, 

Has all his flames and raptures double, 

And hangs or drowns with half the trouble ; 

While those that sillily pursue 

The simple, downright way, and true, 

Make as unlucky applications, 

And steer against the streams their passions : 

Some forge their mistresses of stars ; 

And when the ladies prove averse, 

And more untoward to be won, 

Than by Caligula the moon, 

Cry out upon the stars for doing 

III offices, to cross their wooing ; 

When only by themselves they 're hindered, 

For trusting those they made her kindred ; 

And still, the harsher and hide-bounder 

The damsels prove, become the fonder. 

For what mad lover ever dy'd, 

To gain a soft and gentle bride t 

Or for a lady tender-hearted, 

In purling streams or hemp departed ? 

Leap'd headlong int* Elysium, 

Thro' th* windows of a dazzling room ? 

But for some cross ill-natur'd dame, 

The am'rous fly burnt in his flame. 

This to the knight could be no news, 

With all mankind so much in use ; 

Who therefore took the wiser course, 

To make the most of his amours, 

Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways, 

As follows in due time and place/ 1 

The knight, presuming on his conquest over the 
astrologer, proceeds at once to the lady : — 
u T acquaint her with his expedition, 
And conquest o'er the fierce magician : 
Describe the manner of the fray, 
And show the spoils he brought away ; 
His bloody scourging aggravate, 
The number of the blows and weight ; 
All which might probably succeed, 
And gain belief h' had done the deed. 
Which he resolv'd t' enforce, and spare 
No pawning of his soul to swear : 
But rather than produce his back, 
To set his conscience on the rack ; 
And in pursuance of her urging _ 
Of articles perform' d and scourging, 
And all things else upon his part, 
Demand deli v'ry of her heart, 
Her goods and chattels, and good graces, 
And person, up to his embraces." 
In the mean time Ralpho, who, it will be remem- 
bered, had been sent for 

" A strong detachment 
Of beadles, constables, and watchmen," 
to apprehend Sidrophel and Whachum for robbery, 
while his master was keening guard over them, in- 
stead of performing his tasK, resolves to betray him to 
his mistress :— 

" He call'd to mind th' unjust foul play 
He would have offer' d him that day. 
To make him curry his own hide, 
Which no beast ever did beside, 
Without all possible evasion, 
But of the riding dispensation. 
And therefore much about the hour, 
The knight (for reasons told before) 
Resolved to leave him to the fury 
Of justice, and an unpacked jury, 
The squire concurred t' abandon him, 
And serve him in the self-same trim ; 
T' acquaint the lady what h' had done, 
And what he meant to carry on ; 
What project 'twas he went about 
When Sidrophel and he fell out ; 



His firm and stedfast resolution 

To swear her to an execution ; 

To pawn his inward ears to marry her, 

And bribe the devil himself to carry her.' 
The widow is of course made fully aware of the 
knight's evasions of his promise, and of his knavish 
intentions. But she preserves a serious countenance 
when he makes his appearance, and, after 
" All due ceremonies paid. 

He strok'd his beard, and thus he said : 
1 Madam, I do, as is my duty, 

Honour the shadow of your shoe-tie : 

And now am come, to bring your ear 

A present you '11 be glad to hear; 

At least I hope so. The thing 's done, 

Or may I never see the sun ; 

For which I humbly now demand 

Performance at your gentle hand ; 

And that you 'd please to do your part, 

As I have done mine to my smart.' 
With that he sbrugg'd his sturdy back, 

As if he felt his shoulders ache, 

But she, who well enough knew what 

(Before he spoke) he would be at, 

Pretended not to apprehend 

The mystery of what he mean'd : 

And therefore wished him to expound 

His dark expressions less profound." 
A discussion next takes place between the knight 
and the lady on the value of oaths, by which the knight 
offers to establish the truth of his testimony, affirming 

that 

" < He that makes his soul his surety, 
I think does give the best security.' 
Quoth she, « Some say, the soul 's secure 
Against distress and forfeiture ; 
Is free from action, and exempt 
From execution and contempt ; 
And to be summon'd to appear- 
In the other world, 's illegal here, 
And therefore few make any account, 
Int' what incumbrances they run 't. 
For most men carry things so even 
Between this world, and hell, and heaven, 
Without the least offence to either, 
They freely deal in all together, 
And equally abhor to quit 
This world for both, or both for it, 
And when they pawn and damn their souls, 
They are but pns'ners on paroles." 
He at length proceeds to relate a series of the most 
extravagant and absurd fictions as to his self-chastise- 
ment and his combat with the astrologer and his 
assistant : — 

" But as h' was running on, 
To tell what other feats h' had done, 
The lady stopt his full career, 
\And told him now 'twas time to hear; 

« If half those things,' said she, « be true,' 

« They 're all,' quoth he, ' I swear by you.' 

' Why then,' said she, 'that Sidrophel 

Has damn'd himself to th' pit of hell ; 

Who, mounted on a broom, the nag 

And hackney of a Lapland hag, 

In quest of you came hither post, 

Within an hour, I'm sure, at most , 

Who told me all you swear and say, 

Quite contrary another way ; 

Vow'd that you came to him, to know 

If you shou'd carry me or no ; 

And would have hir'd him and 's imps 

To be your match-makers and pimps, 

T engage the devil on your side, 

And steal, like Proserpine, your bride. 

But he disdaining to embrace 

So filthy a design and base, 

You fell to vapouring and huffing, 

And drew upon him like a ruffian ; 



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Surpris'd him meanly unprepar'd, 

Before h' liad time to mount his guard ; 

And left him dead upon the ground, 

With many a bruise and desp'rate wound : 

Swore you had broke and robb'd his house. 

And stole bis talismanic louse, 

And all his new-found old inventions, 

With flat felonious intentions : 

Which he could bring out, where he had, 

And what he bought them for, and paid ; 

His flea, his Morpion, and Punese, 

H' had gotten for his proper ease, 

And all in perfect minutes made, 

By th* ablest artist of the trade ; 

Which (he could prove it) since he lost, 

He has been eaten up almost ; 

And altogether might amount 

To many hundreds on account : 

For which h' had got sufficient warrant 

To seise the malefactors errant, 

Without capacity of bail, 

But of a cart's or horse's tail ; 

And did not doubt to bring the wretches, 

To serve for pendulums to watches ; 

Which modem virtuosos say, 

Incline to hanging every way. 

Besides he swore, and swore 'twas true, 

That ere he went in quest of you, 

He set a figure to discover 

If you were fled to Rye or Dover; 

And found it clear, that, to betray 

Yourselves and me, you fled this way ; 

And that he was upon pursuit, 

To lake you somewhere hereabout. 

He vow'd he had intelligence 

Of all that pass'd before and since : 

And found, that ere you came to him, 

V had been engaging life and limb, 

About a case of tender conscience, 

Where both abounded in your own sense; 

Till Ralpho, by his light and grace, 

Had clear'd all scruples in the case ; 

And prov'd that you might swear and own 

Whatever 's by the wicked done. 

For which, most basely to requite 

The service of his gift and light, 

You strove t' oblige him by main force 

To scourge his ribs instead of yours ; 

But that he stood upon his guard, 

And all your vapouring out-dar'd ; 

For which, between you both, the feat 

Has never been perform'd as yet.' 

While thus the lady talked, the knight 
Turn'd th' outside of his eyes to white, 
(As men of inward light are wont 
To turn their optics in upon 't). 
He wonder'd how she came to know 
What he had done, and meant to do : 
Held up his affidavit-hand, i 

As if h had been to be arraign'd : 
Cast towards the door a ghastly look, 
In dread of Sidrophel, and spoke." 

He speaks but to reiterate his assertions and oaths as 
to his truth ; but the lady replies, 

" I *ve learn'd how far I 'm to believe 
Your pinning oaths upon your sleeve. 
But there 's a better way of clearing 
What you wou'd prove, than downright swearing ;*' 

and that is stripping and showing his wounds. This 
of course he declines, pleading that he 
" ought to have a care 
To keep his wounds from taking air." 

She is unsatisfied, but asks if 

<( we should agree* 
What is it you expect from meY' 

The knight answers, he desires her plighted faith, 
which the had "past in heaven on record.'' This 



gives occasion to a most ingenious and humorous 
satire on marriage ; while the playful exaggerations, 
and the placing it in the mouth of a lady, takes away 
all the sting, and from the mouth of a widow all the 
impropriety. We have not room for the whole, but 
give sufficient to show its excellence :— 

" Quoth she, ' There are no bargains driv'n,' 

Nor marriages clapp'd up in heav'n, s 

And that 's the reason, as some guess, 

There is no heav'n in marriages ; 

Two things that naturally press 

Too narrowly, to be at ease. 

Their bus'ness there is only love, 

Which marriage is not like t' improve. 

Love, that 's too gen'rous to abide 

To be against its nature tied : 

For where 'tis of itself inclin'd, 

It breaks loose when it is confiu'd ; 

And like the soul, its harbourer, 

Debarred the freedom of the air, 

Disdains against its will to stay, 

But struggles out, and flies away : 

And therefore never can comply 

T' endure the matrimonial tie, 

That binds the female and the male, 

Where th* one is but the other's bail ; 

Like Roman gaolers, when they slept, 

Chain'd to the prisoners they kept. 

Of which the true and faithful's! lover 

Gives best security, to suffer. 

***** 

A bargain at a venture made '. 
Between two partners in a trade ; 
(For what 's inferr'd by f have and t' hold, 
But something past away, and sold ?) 
That as it makes but one of two, 
Reduces all things else as low : 
And at the best is but a mart 
Between the one and th' other part, 
That on the marriage-day is paid 
Or hour of death, the bet is laid ; ( 
And all the rest of better or worse, 
Both are but losers out of purse. 

***** 

A slavery beyond enduring, 
But that 'tis of their own procuring : 
As spiders never seek the fly, 
But leave him, of himself, t' apply; 
So men are by themselves betray 'd 
To quit the freedom they enjoy 'd, 
And run their necks into a noose, 
They 'd break 'em after, to break loose. 
* As some whom death would not depart, 
Have done the feat themselves by art. 
Like Indian widows, gone to bed 
In flaming curtains to the dead ; 
And men as often dangled for 't, 
And vet will never leave the sport 
Nor do the ladies want excuse 
For all the stratagems they use. 
To gain the advantage of the set, 
And lurch the am'rous rook and cheat. 
For as the Pythagorean soul 
Runs thro' all beasts, and fish, and fowl, 
And has a smack of evVy one ; 
So love does, and has ever done. 
And therefore, tho' 'tis ne'er so fond, 
Takes strangely to the vagabond. 
Tis but an ague that 's revers'd, 
Whose hot fit takes the patient first, 
That after burns with cold as much 
As ir'n in Greenland does the touch , 
Melts in the furnace of desire, 
Like glass, that 's but the ice of fire, 
And when his heat of fancy 's over, 
Becomes as hard and frail a lover. 
For when he f s with love-powder laden, 
And prioVd and cock'd by miss, or 
The smallest sparkle of an eye 
Gives fits to his artillery | 



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For when it fall* out for the best, 

Where both are incommoded least, 

In soul and body to unite, 

To make up one hermaphrodite : 

Still amorous, and fond, and billing, 

Like Philip and Mary on a shilling, 

TV have more punctilios and capriches 

Between the petticoat and breeches, 

More petulant extravagances, 

Than poets make 'em in romances, 

Tho' when their heroes "spouse their dames, 

We hear no more of charms and flames : 

For then their late attracts decline, 

And turn'as eager as prick 'd wine : 

And all their caterwauling tricks, 

In earnest to as jealous piques : 

Which th' ancients wisely signified, 

By th* yellow mantle of the bride : 

* * * * * 

For 'tis in vain to think to guess 
At women by appearances ; 
That patch and paint their imperfections 
Of intellectual complexions : 
And daub their tempers o'er with washes 
As artificial as their faces ; 
Wear under visard-masks their talents 
And mother wits before their gallants ; 
Until they 're hamper'd in the noose, 
Too fast to dream of breaking loose : 
When all the flaws they strove to hide 
Are made unready, with the bride, 
That, with her wedding clothes, undresses 
Her complaisance and gentilesses : 
Tries all her arts, to take upon her 
The government from th 1 easy owner : 
Until the wretch is glad to waive 
His lawful right, and turn her slave; 
Find all his having and his holding, 
Reduc'd t eternal noise and scolding ; 
The conjugal petard, that tears 
Down all portcullises of ears, 
And makes the volley of one tongue 
For all their leathern shields too strong." 

The knight controverts these propositions, but in a 
way rather to show his metaphysical character and 
mercenary motives than to afford any satisfactory 
answer. The dispute, however, proceeds, til) 
" Twas grown dark and late, 

When th* heard a knocking at the gate, 

Laid on in haste with such a powder, 

The blows grew louder still and louder. 

Which Hudibras, as if th' had been 

Bestow'd as freely on his skin, 

Expounding by his inward light, 

Or rather more prophetic fright, 

To be the wizard, come to search, 

And take him napping in the lurch, 

Turn'd pale as ashes, or a clout ; 

But why, or wherefore, is a doubt. 

For men will tremble, and turn paler, 

With too much, or too little valour." 
The lady encourages him, advises him to retreat and 
hide himBelf from the pursuers, while she herself 
will 



'• Stand csntinel, 
To guard this pass 'gaiust Sidropfcel" 

He affects to demur; but hearing a renewed attack 
on the door, 

*' He thought it desperate to stay 
Till th' enemy had forc'd his way, 
But rather post himself, to serve 
The lady for a fresh reserve. 
His duty was not to dispute, 
But what sh* had order'd execute : 
Which he resolv'd in haste t' obey. 
And therefore stoutly march 'd away ; 
And all h' encountered fell upon, 
Tho 1 in the dark, and all alone. 
Till fear, that braver feats performs, 
Than ever courage dar'd in arms. 
Had drawn him up before a nass, 
To stand upon his guard, and face : 
This he courageously invaded, 
And having enter'd, barricaded. 
Insconc'd himself as formidable 
As could be underneath a table ; 
Where he lay down in ambush close, 
T' expect th* arrival of his foes. 
Few minutes he had lain perdue, 
To guard his des'prate avenue, 
Before he heard a dreadful shout, 
As loud as putting to the rout ; 
With which impatiently alarm'd, 
He fancy 'd th' enemy had storm *d, 
And, after entering, Sidrophel 
Was fall'n upon the guards pell-mell. 
He therefore sent out all his senses, 
To bring him in intelligences ; 
Which vulgar*, out of ignorance, 
Mistake for falling in a trance ; 
But those that trade in geomancy, 
Affirm to be the strength of fancy : 
In which the Lapland magi deal, 
And things incredible reveal. 
Meanwhile the foe beat up his quarters, 
And storm'd the outworks of his fortress. 
* * * * • 

Soon as they had him at their mercy, 
They nut him to the cudgel fiercely, 
As if tney scom'd to trade or barter, 
By giving or by taking quarter : 
They stoutly on his quarters laid, 
Until his scouts came in V his ait). 
For when a man is past his sense, 
There s no way to reduce him thence, 
But twinging him by th" ears and nose, 
Or laying on of heavy blows : 
And if that will not do the deed, 
To burning with hot irons proceed. 
No sooner was he come t' himself, 
But on his neck a sturdy elf 
Cfepp'd in a trice his cloven hoof, 
And thus atrack'd him with reproof." 

But we must leave the colloquy for another paper. 



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f n Unterna Magtau— From Pinelll.] 



MAGIC LANTERN AT ROME. 

In this instance Bartolommco Pinelli's design must 
speak for itself; for we have very little to say about these 
magic lantern exhibitors. In our time they all came 
from Upper Italy, and most of them, we believe, from 
the mountains which surround the Lake of Coino or 
from those which back the Lake of parda. In form 
and feature thev differed much from the Roman popu- 
lation : they looked more like Savoyards or Swiss than 
Southern Italians ; and, among themselves, they spoke 
a dialect or patois which was scarcely intelligible to 
the Romans. Their usual cry was not "Who will see 
the Magic Lantern ?" but, "Who will see the New 
World — Ohi vuol veder U Mondo Nuovo t" Like nearly 
all the rest of Italian showmen, they were great travel- 
lers ; and, at one time, some of the fraternity were to 
J>e founc} in almost every country in Europe, not even 
excepting Russia. They have entirely disappeared 
from our streets, and their nocturnal cry, we believe, 
19 no longer heard anywhere in England ; but we can 
remember the time — at the early part of the present 
century — when they abounded in London, and were 
especial favourites with young people. [Many of our 
young people have now better magic lanterns of their 
own within doors ; and this fact may have driven away 
the old exhibitors by making their trade unprofitable. J 
These poor fellows appeared with the long nights of 
winter, and disappeared at the approach of the short 
nights of summer: they were most on foot about the 
merry festive season of Christmas. They generally 
carried a hand-organ as well as their magical box. 
Their cry, which still rings musically in our ears, was 
— " Galante So! Galante So!"—Galante being good 
Italian for gallant, or brave, or fine, and So being their 
pronunciation of our English word show. In short, 
they offered the sight of a fine show in London, as they 
offered the sight of the new world at Rome. The de- 
signs on their slips of glass were for the most part ex- 
ceedingly grotesque ; and their own personal appear- 
ance was scarcely less so in our young eyes. They 
were among the first foreigners we ever saw. The 
bear-wards were scarcely greater favourites with us, or 
excited more of our childish admiration and wonder- 
ment When, after the lapse of many years, we found 
some poor fellows of precisely the same sort in the 
south of Italy, we looked upon them as old friends. 



THE TARANTULA SPIDER.— No. II. 

H avi no given the fabulous history of the Tarantula 
Spider, we now proceed to the real character and 
habits of the insect. These appear to have been most 
attentively studied by M. Leon Dufour, who published 
in the Annates des Sciences NatureUes for 1835 an ela- 
borate account of the Tarantula, from which we select 
the following particulars. 

This spider belongs to the genus Lycosa, several 
species of which are common in the southern countries 
of Europe, but have not yet been sufficiently studied, 
owing perhaps to the difficulties accompanying the 
study. Considering these spiders according to their 
habits, they may be divided into two sections. The 
first section contains the larger, more robust, and 
more industrious kinds, which inhabit subterranean 
entrenchments, or burrows dug out by themselves. 
These may be called the mining species. The other 
section consists of those which remain more habitually 
upon the surface of the soil, and merely hide them- 
selves at times among stones or in fissures of the 
earth. These may be called the wandering or vagrant 
species. 

The particular species of this insect which M. Du- 
four seems to have identified as the true tarantula of 
the ancients, has been studied by him in various parts 
of Spain. The size of the insect he has omitted to 
mention ; but other authors describe it as bein£ about 
as large as a chestnut, though occasionally attaining a 
greater size. This spider is yellowish grey on the 
upper part, and black on the under parts of the body. 
The legs are eight in number, strong and stout, and 
the last pair is provided with brushes on the under 
side of the terminal joints. These brushes are much 
used by the spider in performing ** its toilette, ,? and 
they also assist it to climb up smooth surfaces. The 
insect is provided with a large and strong pair of man- 
dibles of a shining black colour. The eyes, during life, 
have sometimes the colour of rubies ; but in deaq spe- 
cimens they are either brown or inclining to black, 
with a pale circle at their base. 

This formidable spider chooses for its abode a dry, 
uncultivated place, tnat is exposed to the sun's rays. 
The burrows which it digs are of a cylindrical form, 
and often of the diameter of one inch, and sunk more 
than a foot in the soil. The spider proves itself a 



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skilful hunter, and an able engineer, by the method 
pursued in making his burrow. He requires not only 
a deep intrencbnient, where he may hide from his 
enemies, but a place, of observation, from which he 
can spy out his prey, and dart like an arrow upon it. 
The subterranean passage has, therefore, at first a 
vertical direction, but at four or five inches from the 
surface it turns in an obtuse angle, forms a horizontal 
bend, and then assumes the perpendicular. It is at 
this bend that the tarantula watches like a vigilant 
sentinel, never for a moment losing sight of the door 
of his dwelling. There his eyes may be seen glittering 
in the dark, like those of a cat. The exterior orifice 
of the tarantula's burrow is in general surmounted 
with a funnel, which rises about an inch above the 
soil, and is sometimes two inches in diameter. This 
funnel is principally composed of fragments of dry 
wood, united by a little clay, and arranged in such an 
artist-like manner that they form a scaffolding in the 
shape of an upright column, of which the interior is a 
hollow cylinder. This funnel is made secure within 
by being lined with a tissue formed of the spider's 
web. These outworks of the spider's abode do not 
exist in every case, but are sufficiently numerous to 
prove that their formation engages the skill at least of 
the older insects. 

The months of May and June are the most favour- 
able season for searching for the tarantula. The first 
time that Dufour discovered the holes of this spider, 
and satisfied himself that they were inhabited by ob- 
serving the insect at iis post, he thought that the best 
way of securing the spider would be to attack it by 
open force, and follow it to the termination of its bur- 
row. He therefore passed whole hours opening the 
intrenchment with his knife in order to sack his domi- 
cile. After digging to the depth of a foot, and over a 
space of two feet in width, he was obliged to give up 
tne search, not meeting with the tarantula. He made 
the attempt at other holes, but always with the same 
result ; until he changed his plan of attack, and had 
recourse to stratagem. Taking a stalk surmounted by 
a spikelet, he shook and rubbed it gently against the 
opening of the hole. The attention and desire of the 
spider were soon awakened, and it advanced slowly 
towards the entrance of the hole. Dufour then drew 
back the stalk, and the spider, fearful of losing it, 
threw himself at one spring out of his dwelling, the 
entrance of which was immediately closed. In this 
case the tarantula was greatly disconcerted at not 
being able to regain his abode, and was very awkward 
in his attempts to elude pursuit, so that there was not 
much difficulty in making him take up his quarters 
in a piece of paper, where he was shut up and made 
prisoner. 

The tarantula has a frightful appearance to those 
who behold it for the first time, and are impressed 
with the idea of danger from its bite ; but, shy as it 
appears, it is very capable of being tamed, as Dufour 
has fully shown. One of these insects he kept alive 
for five months, and he thus gives us its history : — 
•' During my stay at Valencia in Spain, I took, on the 
7th of May, a tarantula of tolerable size. I imprisoned 
him in a glass covered with paper, in which I had 
made a square opening. At the bottom of the glass I 
left the roll of paper in which I had carried him, and 
which was to serve him for a dwelling. I placed the 
glass upon a table in my bed-room, that I might have 
frequent opportunities of watching him. He soon be- 
came accustomed to his cell, and at last grew so fami- 
liar that he would come to eat out of my fingers the 
living fly that I brought him. After having given his 
victim its death-wound with his jaws, he did not, like 
other spiders, content himself with merely sucking the 
head) but he bruised the different parts of the boiy by 



plunging it into his mouth with his feelers ; after this 
he threw away the remains, and swept them to a dis- 
tance from his hiding-place. His next business was to 
attend to his toilet, by diligently brushing his feelers 
and mandibles on the inner as well as on the outer 
sides. He then resumed his ordinary grave and watch- 
ful attitude. The evening and night were his times 
for taking exercise, and it was then that he made 
attempts to escape. I often heard him scratching 
against the paper of his prison. On the 28th of June 
my tarantula cnanged his skin, but this made no alter- 
ation in the colour of his covering or the size of his 
body. On the 14th of July I was obliged to leave Va- 
lencia, and I remained absent till the 23rd. During 
this time the tarantula fasted, but I found him quite 
well on my return. The 20th of August I was again 
absent for nine days, which my prisoner supported 
without food. On the 1st of October I again left the 
tarantula without any provision. The 21st of this 
month, being twenty leagues from Valencia, where I 
was about to remain, I sent my servant to bring him 
to me. I had the regret of finding that the vase which 
contained him was nowhere to be met with; and I 
could not learn his fate." 

In conclusion we may notice the manner in which 
these creatures conduct their combats. Two full- 
grown vigorous male tarantulas were put into a large 
vase. They made the circuit of their arena many 
times, endeavouring to avoid each other; but, subse- 
quently, hastened, as at a given signal, to set them- 
selves in a warlike attitude. They took their distance, 
and gravely rose upon their hind legs so as to present 
to each other the buckler formed by their chests. 
After having looked at each other for about two 
minutes, they threw themselves upon one another, 
entwined their legs, and endeavoured in an obstinate 
struggle to wound each other with the hooks of their 
mandibles. Either from fatigue or by mutual consent, 
the combat was suspended for a while, and a truce of 
some seconds ensued, when each wrestler, retiring to a 
little distance, resumed his menacing posture. The 
struggle was now renewed with more fury than before. 
One of them was, at length, overthrown and mortally 
wounded in the head. He became the prey of the 
vanquisher, who tore open his skull and devoured 
him. Dufour, the witness of this combat, kept the 
victorious tarantula alive for many weeks. We need 
scarcely remark that this writer, after all his personal 
observations on the tarantula, treats with entire con- 
tempt the fables connected with its history. 



SPURS. 

[Concluded from p. 96.] 



The rouelle, rowel, or wheel spur, so called from the 
revolution of its spicuJa about an axis, derives its name 
from the French roue, a wheel. It has many advan- 
tages over the prycA-spur ; for if the point of the latter 
were broken or bent, it became entirely useless; 
whereas by the rotation of the wheel, the place is sup- 
plied by a succession of others, and the motion of the 
points prevents their injuring the horse. 

The rowel was totally unknown to the Anglo- 
Saxons, their spur being a goad in the fashion of a 
spear-head, attached to the foot by a leather thong. 
About the time of the Conquest, some spurs had veiy 
obtuse points and others very large wheels. In the 
Norman spur the point is like a spear-head, though 
thick and pyramidal ; but in the Roman like an obtuse 
Bpike or nail. Some partook both of the pryck and 
rowel. 

The pryck-spur seems to have been worn occa- 
sionally for a considerable time after the invention of 



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the rowel. Several of our kings and great barons are 
represented with both varieties. According to some 
authorities, Henry III. was the first of our kings who 
wore rowel-spurs. Such spurs are shown upon the 
seal of that sovereign, and none are observable on 
sepulchral monuments before the time of Edward II. 
In the second part of Henry IV., Act I. Scene 1, 
occurs the following passage : — 

" After him came, spurring hard, 
A gentleman almost forspent with speed, 
That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse : 
He ask'd the way to Chester ; and of him 
I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. 
He told me, that rebellion had ill luck, 
And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold : 
With that, he gave his able horse the head, 
And, bending forward, struck his armed heels 
Against the panting sides of his poor jade 
Up to the rowel-head ; and starting so, 
He seem'd in running to devour the way, 
Staying no longer question." 
The spiculae of the ancient rowel-spurs were of great 
length. Some specimens have been dug up, in which 
the length from the centre to the point is six inches 
and a half. In the spur shown at Fig. d t each point 
measures three inches : the length of the neck of this 
spur in a straight line is four inches ; its weight ten 
ounces and a quarter. It was discovered in digging 
the foundation for the obelisk on Barnet Common, 
erected in memory of the bloody battle fought on that 
spot between the houses of York and Lancaster, in 
which battle it* is probable its owner fell and was 
buried on the spot 




In Strutt the booted figures after the fifteenth cen- 
tury are always spurred ; but the rowels are in that and 
the following century sometimes a serrated wheel, 
sometimes like a star. But the varieties of rowel- 
spurs are almost endless. The following are a few 
specimens. Fig. a is copied from the illuminations to 
Lydgate's poems, Harl. MS. 2278, and belongs to the 
fifteen century, b and c are brass spurs of the early 
and middle part of Henry VI. e is a very elegant form 
of spur, found some years ago in Tow ton field near 
York. It is inscribed with the motto: — 
£n lotal amour tout mon rorr 

We have already noticed the fancy for extending the 
spiculae to a great length (see Fig. d) ; at a later period 
the neck of the spur was extended : Fig. f is a long- 
necked brass spur of the time of Henry VII. ; Fig. g 
belongs to the time of Henry VIII., and is of steel; 
Fig. h is an iron spur of the time of Elizabeth.* Mr. 

* Most of our figures are copied from the plates given in the 
early volumes of the Archacologia, through which are scatteied 
many notices of spurs, which nave greatly assisted us. 



Grose gives a form of spur which he thinks was 
formerly worn by persons walking in processions, 
'• the roundness and bluntness of its inollets preventing 
its hitching in the robes of the wearer." 

Gold or gilt spurs were distinctions of knights; the 
spurs of such Knights as weie killed in battle were 
commonly hung up in churches. Froissait. mentions 
that the spurs were taken off when the knights fought 
on foot ; and that sometimes they were stuck, rowels 
uppermost, in the ground upon the slope of a hill, in 
order that the enemy might not ascend easily. 

In the collection of pictures at Hampton Court there 
is a very old production by an unknown artist, the 
subject of which is " The Bataile of Spvrrs, anno 1513," 
fought between the English and the French at Guinc- 
gaste in France, early in the reign of Henry VIII., 
that monarch being present in the hostile strife. The 
assigned reason why the conflict obtained its name of 
" Spvrrs" is that the champions of France made more 
use of their spurs than of their swords ; or — in plain 
English—they ran away; but as the French them- 
selves named this day '• La Journee des Eperons," we 
should be inclined to suppose that the two nations at- 
tached different meanings to the term ; but that the 
French actually made a retreat there is no doubt, for 
Bayard assisted in it and was taken prisoner, when his 
presence saved the honour of his companions. 

The foreground of the picture is occupied by ca- 
valry, in the centre of which is the principal warrior in 
very rich armour of gilt steel profusely ornamented, 
his vizor up. His horse also wears sumptuous armour 
corresponding to that of the rider ; and from the cir- 
cumstance of the royal arms being embroidered on the 
housings, the rider is supposed to represent Henry 
VIII. He is receiving the homage of a dismounted 
knight, who is kneeling bare-headed, his helmet lying 
near him on the ground ; his armour is very splendid, 
being enriched with gold, &c. This figure is probably 
intended for the French commander, who thus owns 
Henry as his conqueror. Although these two per- 
sonages are thus occupied without any weapons in 
their hands, the knights around them are engaged in 
the conflict with sword, lance, battle-axe, and long 
bow. English horse are advancing, accompanied by 
trumpets hung with the royal banners, sounding a 
charge: those in the van are in the act of presenting 
their arms ready for the attack. To the right of the 
picture the French squadrons are in full retreat pursued 
by the English.* 

During a long period spurs worn with boots denoted 
the rank of the wearer ; when the knights were accus- 
tomed to wear gold or gilt spurs, silver spurs were ap- 
propriated to esquires. Nares says that spurs were 
long a favourite article of finery in the morning dress 
of a gay man ; and that it was considered as particu- 
larly fashionable to have them so made as to rattle or 
jingle when the wearer moved. 

On the Continent in the seventeenth century boots 
were never worn without spurs, and then the high 
leather cushion against the stirrup came into use. 

Ripon was celebrated for making the best spurs in 
England. The rowels would pierce a shilling, and 
rather break than bend. "As true steel as Ripon 
rowels ,, was long a proverbial expression to denote 
honesty and courage. A pair of Ripon spurs pre- 
sented to James I., in 1617, cost five pounds sterling. 

The history of the spurs worn by the M Herald" at 
the proclamation of his late majesty William IV. at 
Exeter, in the year 1830, is somewhat curious. Mr. 
Baker, an ironmonger in the High-street of that city, 

* The above pictures, together with three others relating to 
Henry VIII. and his reign, have lately been removed from the 
Queen's Gallery in Hampton Court, and placed in the Queen's 
Audience Chamber. 



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had purchased them in a lot of old iron by weight at 
one farthing per pound. On being polished the spurs 
proved to be of silver, decorated with a fleur-de-lis, 
and worth, as old silver, upwards of three pounds ster- 



THE SABBATH OF THE WORKING MAN. 

In my earlier years, this day was too often beclouded and 
made uncomfortable by domestic troubles, which, although 1 
was then so young, 1 could not witness without much pain and 
concern ; now, however, our affairs were in a little better state, 
and there was more household comfort Our Sundays were 
really seasons of rest and quietness ; and, consequently, my 
amount of enjoyment was much increased. Everything about 
me on these days seemed to wear a new aspect — that of sacred 
repose. To me it was a day of inestimable worth. I looked 
for its return with emotions of heartfelt pleasure, anticipating 
a day of rational and invigorating enjoyment. Nor was I 
often disappointed in even the least degree ; for though I felt on 
this day the natural effects of six days' previous and wearying 
labour, yet 1 had learned not to be cast down on that accouut 
I, moreover, found my Sunday pursuits and amusements to be 
powerfully instrumental in cheering and elevating my *' inner 
man." My custom was to have everthlng I was likely to 
want on this day got ready for my use on the preceding even- 
ing, so that I might have the entire day at my disposal. That 
I might make the day as long as possible, I rose early : if the 
mornings were at all fine, I walked in the adjacent fields, 
where I found ample amusement in either reading the book of 
nature or some humbler volume, without which I took care 
never to go out on these excursions. About the time that the 
melodious sound of 

" The churcn-goitig bells, 
That music Highest bordering upon heaven," 

was first heard, I reached home, and there took my frugal 
meal, in company and converse with my parents and sister. 
I did this with feelings of satisfaction, such as I wish could be 
understood by all who are regardless of domestic happiness. 
After breakfast I sometimes sauntered in my fathers little 
garden, where I either gossiped with him about his flowers 
and plants, or else indulged in some pleasing reverie, or, in the 
very idleness of thought, gazed on the " slowly sailing" clouds, 
or on the Quick movements of the birds, or listened to the 
" pleasing hum" of insects. When less indolent I employed 
myself in reading. At other times I Went out soon after break- 
fast in order to have a quiet ramble in the spacious, thickly- 
peopled, and, in my esteem, pleasant grave-yard attached to 
the meeting-house. Here I found much and fitting employ- 
ment for both the memory and the imagination. I passed by 
or over the last resting-places of many faded forms, which I 
remembered to nave seen exhibiting the bloom of youth or the 
vigour of maturity: now the grass, that apt and beautiful 
emblem of human frailty, flourished on their graves. There 
were flowers also, which, though wild and generally unre- 
garded, were in my view full of beauty ; as they seemed to 
be emblems, if not pledges, of the resuscitation of the dust over 
which they diffused a not unpleasing odour. To me they 
appeared to answer, affirmatively, the anxious question of the 

2ueruloufl patriarch, *♦ If a roan die„ shall he live again ?" 
[ere, then, I read an instructive and an appropriate lesson ; 
one, moreover, which was useful from its tendency to prepare 
me for the exercises of public worship, I attended on these 
with becoming seriousness, mingled with much true satisfac- 
tion. In these days I rarely thought the service to be either 
too long or not sufficiently interesting. I was but little con- 
cerned about the controversial points of theological doctrine ; 
being principally mindful of what had a direct bearing upon 
the far weightier matters of practical religion. After the ser- 
vice was over, I sometimes took a short walk, but more fre- 
quently returned home immediately, where I 6pent the interval 
between the morning and afternoon services much in the same 
way as I had passed the time at and after my breakfast. In 
the afternoon I again attended public worship, but a sense of 
bodily weariness or languor often rendered It less interesting 
than that of the morning. This eventually led me to question 
the utility of attending the afternoon service, when that of the 
morning has not been neglected. My conclusion was in favour 



of spending the time appropriated to this service in either 
reading or reflection, or suitable conversation ; but this con- 
clusion implied an attendance upon the evening worship. The 
time between the afternoon and the evening services I always 

{>rized very highly. It was, indeed, that part of the Sunday's 
eisure which I especially enjoyed. The reason for this was, 
probably, that I then felt much less worn and languid than at 
any previous hour of the day. This favourable change in my 
bodily sensations was produced, as I think, partly by the pro- 
pitious influence of a tranquillized mind upon my very sus- 
ceptible frame, and partly by my then participating in the 
refreshing contents of 

« The cups 
That cheer, but not inebriate." 

The repast known by the name of " tea " has ever been a 
favourite one with myself. It is then, if at all, that I feel an 
increased amount of bodily ease, with more mental activity 
and enjoyment. I could find it in my heart to bless the me- 
mory of him who first brought into notice the shrub which has 
so often and for so long a time ministered to my comfort 
Many a time I have felt greatly revived by merely smelling 
the odour of the pleasant beverage made from its leaves. I 
would not exchange this refreshing decoction for any of the 
productions of the vineyard which I have been allowed to 
taste, still less for those of the brewhouse or the distillery. 
These disorder or oppress me, while tea seldom fails to pro- 
duce the opposite effect of comnosedness or of exhilaration. 
Yet I am not hostile — far, indeed, from it — to the temperate 
use of these stronger drinks ; on the contrary, I hold them to 
be morally lawful, and also useful, on some occasions, to such 
as have stronger constitutions than mine, or whose avocations 
require a more powerful stimulant than I can bear. 

But I must return to the circumstances and results of my 
Sunday tea-dr in kings. At that repast I usually had a little 
cheerful conversation with the other members of the house- 
hold ; or else read to them, or listened to what they might 
read; and thus was agreeably employed until it was time to 
attend the evening service. ...... 

At the close of this service I usually walked in the fields, for 
the double purpose of recreation and reflection. The day was 
closed by a slight meal, and I retired to rest with feelings of 
unalloyed satisfaction. Such were my youthful Sundays, and 
such also, with but little variation, were those of my riper 
years, except when I resided in the midst of an overgrown 
city, or, as subsequently was the case, when the charge of my 
young children, together with the serious failure of my health, 
imposed upon me the necessity of spending those invaluable 
days in a less pleasing, but, I hope, not always in a less appro- 
priate manner. — Weekly Volume, « Memoirs of a Working Man.' 



Chinese* Ornithology, — The ornithology of China is distin- 
guished by some splendid varieties of gallinaceous birds, as the 
gold and silver pheasants, to which have been lately added the 
Reeves's pheasant, deserving of a particular description from Mr. 
Bennett. The longest tail-feathers approach the extraordinary 
dimensions of six feet; and even in the spacious aviary of Mr. 
Beale, it was found that the ends of these magnificent trains were 
broken by the bird's movements. As they come quite from the 
north, it has proved extremely difficult to procure specimens, nor 
has the hen bird ever been obtained. Four cocks were brought 
to Canton in 1830, and purchased for a hundred and thirty 
dollars, or about thirty pounds sterling. These furnished, the 
specimens brought home by Mr. Reeves ; the difficulty of pro- 
curing females being attributed either to a determination on the 
part of the sellers to prevent the birds being bred, or to their 
imagining that the inferior plumage of the hens might render 
them less attractive to purchasers. This obstacle is the more to 
be regretted, as the high latitude from which the species is pro- 
cured renders it not unlikely that they might be propagated 
here in a natural state. Another description is called by Mr. 
Bennett the medallion pheasant, from a beautiful membrane of 
resplendent colours, Which is displayed or contracted according 
as the animal is more or less roused. The brilliant hues are 
chiefly purple, with bright red and green spots, which vary in in- 
tensity with the degree of excitement ; and become developed 
during the early spring mouths, or pairing season of the year. — 
Knight's Weekly Volume, Ab. XIII., < The Chinese: 



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[The Madonna ami Child. By Correggio.] 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 

PAINTERS.— No. XXXVII. 
Correggio and Gioroionr, and their Scholars. 
We shall now give some account of Correggio 8 
works. His two greatest performances-— the dome of 
the San Giovanni and that of the Cathedral of Parma 
— have been mentioned. His pictures, though not nu- 
merous, are diffused through so many galleries, that 
they cannot be said to be rare. It is remarkable that 
they are very seldom met with in the possession of in- 
dividuals, but, with few exceptions, are to be found in 
royal and public collections. 

In our National Gallery are five pictures by Cor- 
reggio : two are studies of angers heads, which, as they 
are not found in any of the existing frescoes, are sup- 
posed to have formed part of the composition in the 
San Giovanni, which, as already related, was destroyed. 
The other three are among his most celebrated works. 
The first, Mercury teaching Cupid to read in the pre- 
sence of Venus, is an epitome of all the qualities which 
characterise the painter; that peculiar smiling grace 
which is the expression of a kina of Elysian happiness, 
and that flowing outline, that melting softness of tone, 
which are quite elusive. " Those who may not perfectly 
understand what artists and critics mean when they 
dwell with rapture on Correggio's wonderful chiaroscuro, 
should look well into this picture. They will perceive 
that in the painting of the limbs they can look through 
the shadows into the substance, as it might be into tne 
flesh and blood; the shadows seem mutable, acci- 
dental, and aerial, as if between the eye and the colours, 
and not incorporated with them. In this lies the in- 
imitable excellence of Correggio/' * 

This picture was painted for Federigo Gonzago, 

* « Public Galleries of Art/ Murray, 1841, in which there it 
a history of the picture, too long to be inserted here. 



no. 832. 



Duke of Mantua; and for the same accomplished but 
profligate prince Correggio painted the other mytho- 
logical stories of Io, Leda, Danae, and Antiope. The 
Venus in our gallery once belonged to Charles I., and 
hung in his apartment at Whitehall; afterwards it 
passed into the possession of the Duke of Alva ; then, 
during the French invasion of Spain/ Murat secured it 
as his share of the plunder ; and his widow sold it to the 
Marquess of Londonderry, from whom it was pur- 
chased by the nation. The Ecce Homo was purchased 
at the same time : it is chiefly remarkable for the fine 
head of the Virgin, who faints with anguish on behold- 
ing the suffering and degradation of her Son ; the 
dying away of sense and sensation under the influence 
of mental pain is expressed with admirable and affect- 
ing truth : the rest of the picture is perhaps rather 
feeble, and the head of Christ not to be compared to 
one crowned with thorns which is in the possession of 
Lord Cowper, nor with another in the Bridgewater 
collection. The third picture is a small but most ex- 
quisite Madonna, known as the Vierge au Panier, from 
the little basket in front of the picture. The Virgin, 
seated, holds the infant Christ on her knee, and looks 
down upon him with the fondest expression of ma- 
ternal rapture, while he gazes up in her face. Joseph 
is seen in the background. This, though called a 
Holy Family, is a simple domestic scene ; and Cor- 
reggio probably in this, as in other instances, made the 
original study from his wife and child. Another picture 
in our gallery ascribed to Correggio, the Christ on the 
Mount of Olives, is a very fine old copy, perhaps a 
duplicate, of an original now in the possession of the 
Duke of Wellington. 

In the Gallery of Parma are five of the most im- 
portant and beautiful pictures of Correggio. The most 
celebrated is that called the St. Jerome. It repre- 
sents the saint presenting to the Virgin and Child his 

Vol XIV.— P 



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[March 22, 



translation of the Scriptures, while on the other side 
the Magdalen bends down and kisses with devotion 
the feel of the infant Saviour. 

The Dresden Gallery is also rich in pictures of Cor- 
reggio ; it contains six pictures, of which four are 
large altar-pieces, bought out of churches in Modena; 
among these is the famous picture of the Nativity, 
called the Notte, or Night, of Correggio, because it 
is illuminated only bv the unearthly splendour which 
beams round the heacl of the infant Saviour : and the 
still more famous Magdalen, who lies extended on tlie 
ground intently reading the Scriptures. No picture in 
the world has been more universally admired, and 
multiplied through copies and engravings, than this 
little picture. 

In the Florence Gallery are three pictures; one of 
them, the Madonna on her knees, adoring with ecstasy 
her Infant who lies before her on a portion of her 
garment, is given in our illustration. 

In the Louvre arc three of his works, — the Marriage 
of St. Catherine being the finest. In the Naples Gal- 
lery there are three, one of them a most lovely Ma- 
donna, called, from the peculiar head-dress, the Zin- 
garella, or Gipsy. In the Vienna Gallery arc two, and 
at Berlin three; amon<$ them the Io and the Leda. 

There is in the British Museum a complete col- 
lection of engravings after Correggio. 

Correggio had no school of painting, and all his au- 
thentic works, except his frescoes, were executed solely 
by his own hand : in the execution of his frescoes he 
had assistants, but they could hardly be called his 
pupils. He had, however, a host ot imitators who 
formed what has been called the School of Parma, 
of which he is considered the head. The most famous 
of these imitators was Francesco Mazzola, of whom we 
shall speak in the next essay. 



SAINT ELMOS FIRE. 



Among the many natural phenomena which have ex- 
cited the superstitious awe of mankind in past ages, 
but which nappily have met with their explanation 
among the generalizations of modern science,, are those 
remarkable luminous appearances which in certain 
Btatcs of the air invest pointed bodies, such as the masts 
of ships, and are known to English sailors as Coma- 
zants ; to the French and Spaniards under the more 
poetical name of St. Elmo's (or St. Helmo's) Fires ; 
and to the Italians as the Fires of St. Peter and St. 
Nicholas. The Portuguese call them Corpo Santo ; 
and in some parts of the Mediterranean they are named 
after St. Clair. 

One of the most ancient notices of this phenomenon 
is recorded in the Commentaries of Caesar, in his 
book ' De Bello Africano,' where it is spoken of as a 
very extraordinary appearance : — " In the month of 
February, about the second watch of the night, there 
suddenly arose a thick cloud followed by a shower of 
hail; and the same night the points of the spears 
belonging to the fifth legion seemed to take fire.'" 
Seneca also, in his 'Quoestiones Naturales,' states, 
that a star settled on the lance of Gylippus as he was 
sailing to Syracuse. Pliny, in his second book of Na- 
tural History, calls these appearances stars, and says 
that they settled not only upon the masts and other 
parts of ships, but also upon men's heads. — " Stars 
make their appearance both at land and sea. I have 
Feen a light in that form on the spears of soldiers 
keeping watch by night upon the ramparts. They are 
seen also on the sail-yards, and other parts of ships, 
making an audible sound, and frequently changing 
their places. Two of these lights forebode good wea- 
ther and a prosperous voyage, and extinguish one that 
appears single, and with a threatening aspect This 



the sailors call Helen, but the two they call Castor and 
Pollux, and invoke them as gods. These lights do 
sometimes, about evening, rest on men's heads, and 
are a great and good omen. But these arc among the 
awful mysteries of nature." Livy also (c. 32) relates 
that the spears of some soldiers in Sicily, and a walk- 
ing-stick which a horseman in Sardinia held in his hand, 
seemed to be on fire. He states also, that the shores 
were luminous with frequent fires. Plutarch also 
records the fact, and Procopius affirms that, in the war 
against the Vandals, the gods favoured Belisarius with 
the same good omen. 

There is no doubt that during many centuries these 
appearances continued to be regarded with mingled 
feelings of admiration and fear. In the record of the 
second voyage of Columbus ('Historia del Almirante,' 
written by his son) is a passage which well illustrates 
the superstitions of the fifteenth century : — " During the 
night of Saturday (October, 1493) the thunder and 
rain being very violent, Saint Elmo appeared on the 
topgallant-mast with seven lighted tapers ; that is to 
say, we saw those fires which the sailors believe to 
proceed from the body of the saint. Immediately all 
on board began to sing litanies and thanksgivings, for 
the sailors hold it for certain that as soon as St. Elmo 
appears, the danger of the tempest is over. But, how- 
ever this may be," &c. Herrera also notices that 
Magellan's sailors had the same superstitions. 

Thus it appears that the auspicious view which the 
ancients took of this phenomenon continued also during 
the middle ages, modified, however, by the religious 
faith of the observers. As we approach our own times 
superstition gradually relinquishes its hold of this ap- 
pearance ; and more matter-of-fact observers, forgetful 
of the bodies of saints illuminated by wax-tapers, speak 
of it as it is, and even make it ridiculous by attributing 
to it a material character which it certainly does not 
possess. Forbin, sailing among the Balearic Islands 
m 1696, relates, that during the night a sudden dark- 
ness came on, accompanied by fearful lightning and 
thunder. All the sails were furled", and preparations 
were made for the storm. " We saw more than thirty 
Saint Elmo's fires. There was one playing upon the 
vane of the mainmast more than a foot and a half 
high. I sent a man up to bring it down. When he was 
aloft he cried out that it made a noise like wetted gun- 
powder in burning. I told him to take off the vane 
and come down ; but scarcely had he removed it from 
its place than the fire quitted it and re-appeared at the 
end of the mast without any possibility of removing it. 
It remained for a long time, and gradually went out." 

We come now to divest the phenomenon of all its 
romance in the plain statements of two intelligent ob- 
servers. The first is Lieutenant Milne of the Royal 
Navy, who, in a communication to Professor Jameson, 
Btates that lie was off the coast of Brazil in September, 
1827 ; the day had been sultry, and heavily charged 
clouds had been collecting in the S.W. As evening 
approached it became very dark ; the lightning was 
very vivid, and was followed by.heavy peals of distant 
thunder. About ten o'clock a light was observed on 
the extremity of the vane-staff at the mast-head, and 
shortly afterwards another on the weather side of the 
fore-topsail-yard. One of the midshipmen, curious to 
examine this appearance a little more closely, went 
aloft. He found that it appeared to proceed from an 
iron bolt in the yard-arm ; its size was rather larger 
than that of a walnut, and it had a faint yellow cast -in 
the centre, approaching to blue on the external edge. 
On applying nis hand to it. it made a noise like the 
burning of a port-fire, emitting at the same time & 
dense smoke without any sensible smell. On taking 
away his hand it resumed its former appearance, but 
when he applied the sleeve of his wet jacket, it ran 



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up it, and immediately became extinguished, and did 
not appear again. The lijjht on the vane-staff retained 
its position for upwards ot an hour, but on account of 
the heavy rain, and probably also from having been 
struck by the vane attached to the staff, it went out, 
but resumed its position after the rain had ceased, 
although with a less degree of brightness. 

In the above account the only circumstance which 
we do not understand is the dense smoke said to have 
been emitted by the light. This may perhaps be attri- 
buted to the imagination of the observer who witnessed 
the phenomenon for the first time. Other accounts 
are given by Lieutenant Milne, but these we need not re- 
peat. He says that the fire usually appeared on metal, 
such as iron bolts and copper spindles; but, on one 
occasion, he noticed it on a spindle of hard wood from 
which the copper had been removed. He states that 
bad weather always followed the phenomenon. 

In a letter from Mr. William Traill of Kirkwall, to 
Professor Traill, dated 16th of May, 1837, and pub- 
lished in the scientific journals of the time, is an inter- 
esting notice of St. Elmo's fire in Orkney. During 
a tremendous gale in February, 1837, a large boat was 
sunk, but the crew succeeded in Retting her up again 
and dragging her to the shore. This was accomplished 
by night, and they had to wait until three o'clock on the 
following morning until the tide should ebb from her. 
During this time she was attached to the shore by an 
iron chain about thirty fathoms long, which did not 
touch the water ; when suddenly Mr. Traill beheld " a 
sheet of blood-red flame extending along the shore, 
for about thirty fathoms broad and one hundred 
fathoms long, commencing at the chain and stretch- 
ing alone in the direction of the shore, which was 
E.S.E., \he wind being N.N.W. at the time. The 
flame remained about ten seconds, and occurred four 
times in about two minutes." The boatmen, about 
thirty in number, who were sheltering themselves from 
the weather, were apparently alarmed and about to 
make inquiries when attention was suddenly attracted 
by a most splendid appearance at the boat. "The 
whole mast was illuminated, and from the iron spike 
at the summit a flame of one foot long was pointed to 
the N.N.W., from which a thunder-cloud was rapidly 
coming. The cloud approached, which was accompanied 
by thunder and hail ; the flame increased and followed 
the course of the cloud till it was immediately above, 
when it arrived at the length of nearly three feet, after 
w inch it rapidly diminished, still pointing to the cloud as 
it was borne rapidly on to S.S.E. The whole lasted about 
four minutes, and had a most splendid appearance." 

The popular opinion is that St. Elmo's fire now 
appears only on the points of ships' masts; but M. 
Aia^o confutes this opinion by adducing a variety of 
( a^es which seem to prove that the only reason why the 
phenomenon is not commonly seen on the tops of 
church spires, and on the summits of high buildings in 
general, is simply because people never look out for it ; 
but a few recorded instances are sufficient to prove that 
good observers only are wanting to make the pheno- 
menon much more common. 

M. Binon, who was curd of Plauzet during twenty- 
seven years, informed Mr. Watson, the electrician, that 
during great storms accompanied with black clouds 
and frequent lightnings, the three pointed extremities 
of the cross of the steeple of that place appeared sur- 
rounded with a body ot flame, and that when this phe- 
nomenon has been seen the storm was no longer to be 
dread; d, and calm weather returned soon after. In 
August, 1768, Lichtenberg noticed the Saint Elmo's 
fire on the steeple of St. Jacques atGottingem In Ja- 
nuary, 1778, during a violent storm accompanied by rain 
and hail, M. Mongez noticed luminous tufts on many of 
the most elevated summits of the city of Rouen. 



The observation of Caesar respecting the luminous 
points of his soldiers' spears nas been repeated in 
modern times ; and still more remarkable casc3 have 
occurred. In January, 1822, during a heavy fall of 
snow, M. de Thielaw, while on the road to Freyberjr, 
noticed that the extremities of the branches of all the 
trees by the road side were luminous, the light appear- 
ing of a faint bluish tinge. In January, 1824, after a 
storm, M. Maxadorf noticed in a field near Cothen, a 
cart-load of straw, situated immediately under a large 
black cloud ; the extremities of the straw appeared to 
be on fire, and the carter's whip was also luminous. 
This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, and disap- 
peared as the black cloud was blown away by the wind. 
Rozet, in his work on Algiers, relates, that on the 8lh 
of May, 1831, after sunset, some artillery officers were 
walking, during a storm, on the terrace of the fort Ba- 
bazoun at Algiers. Their heads being uncovered, they 
saw, to their great astonishment, that each one's hair 
stood on end, and that each hair was terminated by a 
minute luminous tuft ; on raising their hands these 
tufts formed also at the extremities of their fingers. 

All these and various other phases under which the 
Saint Elmo's fire appears, admit of explanation on the 
principle which regulates a thunder-storm. The elec- 
trical balance between the clouds, a portion of the 
earth's surface directly opposed to these clouds, and 
the intermediate air, being disturbed, the particles of 
air, by a process called induction, increase this dis- 
turbance, throwing the clouds and the earth into two 
highly excited opposite states, which tend more and 
more to combine, according to the length of the pro- 
cess, until at last a union is effected by what Dr. 
Faraday calls a disruptive discharge, which is usually 
accompanied by lightning and thunder. 

If it were possible to connect the clouds and the 
earth by a good metallic conductor, the electrical 
balance would be restored, and no such violent dis- 
charge would ensue. But it sometimes happens that 
when the air is in a highly excited state, a point pro- 
jecting into it will effect a partial discharge. This is 
accompanied by a luminous burst of light and a sort of 
roaring noise. The experiment can be shown at the 
electrical machine, and is known as the brush discharge. 
It usually takes place between a good and a bad con- 
ductor ; it commences at the root of the brush, and is 
complete at the point of the rod, before the more dis- 
tant particles of air acquire the same electrical inten- 
sity. Hence, in the foregoing examples, it will be 
seen that the points of ships' masts, the extremi- 
ties of church steeples, and even less elevated objects, 
are all subject to a visitation from Saint Elmo's fire ; 
or, in other words, when placed in highly excited air, an 
electrical discharge may take place upon them, of so 
slow a character as to be entirely free from danger. 
It is the immense velocity with which lightning 
travels, which causes it to commit such fearful havoc 
when it strikes badly conducting substances. 



A Svanisli Kitchen.. — The kitchen-fire in Spain is usually 
made m the following manner. A square portion of the floor is 
allotted as hearth. On this are laid logs of wood, six or seven 
feet in length, with their ends together, like the sticks of a gipsy 
fire. As they are consumed, these logs are pushed forward (ill 
burnt out. Above is the chimney, formed of hoarding in the 
shape of an immense funnel, with the broad part downwards, and 
reaching within about seven feet of the fire. The funnel conducts 
to a narrower orifice above. Meat is roasted, and all the cookery 
is carried on by the mere use of the burning wood on this primi- 
tive health. The fire is usually tf enormous size; and at the 
inn of Roncesvalles a bench occupied two sides, en which I was 
not sorry to take an half-hour's scat aflermy supper, theeievaticn 
of the spot having made the air chilly. — Travels in France and 
Spain, bv the Rev* F. Trench, 

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[CuMtU do' Buntttnl.] 



CASSETTA DE» BURATTINI. 



Thk box of puppets (Burattini or Fantoccini), or what 
is, or was, legitimately called a puppet-show (from the 
French word poupte), was more frequently exhibited at 
Rome and the other cities of Italy than the Magic 
Lantern. There was more life and variety in it. Some 
of the burattini played comedy, some tragedy and 
Scripture pieces, which last bore a close family resem- 
blance to the old Mysteries and Moralities of the 
English stage. The death of Judas Iscariot was a 
favourite subject; and particular attention was paid to 
the hanging scene, and to the last scene of all, where 
little devils with horns and tails came to clutch the 
traitor and apostate : 

" Piombd quell' alma a V infernal riviera, 
E si ft grau tremuoto in quel momento." 

* Down went the sinner loaded with his crime — 
Down to deep hell ; and earthquakes mark'd the time." 
Even with the small box-puppets, or Burattini, playing 
in the streets by broad daylight, great effects have been 
produced upon the Roman populace and the peasants 
of the neighbourhood ; and critics have been heard 
criticizing the piece and the tiny puppets with all the 
gravity and acumen of Partridge in *Tom Jones,' who 
loved a puppet-show '* of all the pastimes upon earth." 
Much ingenuity was displayed by the ventriloquist and 
puppet-mover inside the curtains, who not only moved 
the various figures and spoke for his persons* dramatis, 
but, in many cases, invented and extemporized the 
dialogues which were put into their mouths. But far 
grander than these perambulatory exhibitions were the 
plays performed within doors in Fantoccini-Theatres, 
or in large rooms converted, for the nonce, into theatres 
of that sort. There was such a theatre at Rome in our 
time, though not quite in so flourishing a condition as 
one at Naples, which stood at the corner of a street, 
opposite to the Castello Nuovo, on the broad way which 
leads from the port and that seat of fun and frolic the 
•• Molo" towards the Strada Toledo and the courtly part 
of the city. In these puppet theatres there was a 
regular stage, with green baize curtain, footlights, and 
other accessories. [We were going to say scenes ; but 
as the three unities of action, time, and place were 
strictly adhered to, there was only one scene used for 
one play ; and as by a little stretch of the imagination 
this one scene- -indistinct by age and long use—might 



be taken just as well for a church as for a castle, or for 
a forest as for a cave, or for any other thing in hand, 
this one scene served for all manner of pieces, from the 
death of Cain to the exploits of Rinaldo or the misad- 
ventures of Policinella.] But here, as was the case with 
Partridge's friend, the figures were as big as the life, or 
nearly so, and the whole puppet-show was performed 
with great regularity add solemnity. Some orators 
might have studied with advantage the striking atti- 
tudes into which these figures were pulled and twitched 
by the invisible movers of the wires ; for here there 
was more than one Pygmalion to give life, motion, and 
speech to the burattini ; and the machinery was far 
more complicate and perfect than in the street shows. 
And some good people there were who thought that 
the automata were more natural and far more impressive 
than the living actors and actresses of the penny 
theatres in their neighbourhood. One old boatman we 
knew who came from Sorrento, and who would never 
attend any other theatre than the puppet-show, to 
which he went regularly twice or thrice a week ; but 
we believe that this arose out of some religious or 
moral scruples. The owner of that puppet theatre was 
an ingenious man, and one that had a high notion of 
the dignity of his profession. When very hard pressed, 
he could not deny that a representation by living actors 
and actresses had some advantages over a representation 
by dolls and puppets. " But," he would say, "there is 
one decided advantage which I, as Impresario, have 
over my rivals : they are always tormented by the wants, 
the caprices, and rebellions of their company ; but my 
little men and women of wood and wire and rags never 
give me any such trouble : they ire often made to suffer 
martyrdoms by the intolerable tyranny of their prima 
donna, or of their chief tyrant, or primo amoroso ; with 
them it is always happening that this lady has got a 
cold and won't sing — tnat this gentleman is in love, or 
in drink, or put under restraint for debt, and can't act ; 
and then the jars about the distribution of parts, and 
the deadly jealousy and hatreds that break out, and 
ofttimes mar the best pieces ! But I know none of 
these sore troubles : my company have no caprices, no 
jealousies, no tyranny, no wants, no colds ; they never 
quarrel with me or among themselves, and, above all 
things, they never ask me for money :— they are never 
missing at play or rehearsal; and when they are done 
playing, Pqffati! (whack) I throw them into my boxes 



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and lock them up! Ministers of State, Who manage 
kingdoms, have been put to it how to manage a royal 
company of actors and actresses. A child might manage 
my Fantoccini." 

In the Elizabethan age, when so much was brought 
from Italv to grace our literature and improve us in 
the arts, the Fantoccini, if not then introduced for the 
first time, appear to have become rather popular in 
England. It should appear, however, that these first 
up pets were very diminutive in size, and were ex- 
ibited only at fairs and wakes. Bartholomew Fair, 
in London, was where they shined most. Their plays 
were then called " motions.'* Ben Jonson makes his 
Bartholomew Fair puppet-showman say — " Oh ! the 
motions that I, Lanthorn Leatherhead, have given light 
to in my time, since my roaster Pod died ! Jerusalem 
was a stately thing, and so was Nineveh, and the city 

of Norwich, But the Gunpowder Plot, 

there was a get-penny 1" * The same great personage 
says — •• Your home-born subjects prove ever the best, 
they are so easy and familiar : they put too much learn- 
ing in their things now-a-days 1" Yet it should seem 
that Eastern and Scriptural subjects formed by far the 
greater part of the stock of these puppet plays. In 
another place Ben Jonson names one puppet play 
which enjoyed a long run, and which he calls "A new 
motion of the City of Nineveh, with Jonas and the 
Whale." t These tiny puppets evidently aspired to no 
higher fame than such as could be gotten from children 
and the poorer people. But the bigger puppets, the 
Fantoccini, that were as large as life, or nearly so (like 
those of our Neapolitan manager), were destined to 
obtain the admiration of the grown-up fashionable 
world, and of full-grown royalty itself. Some Italian 
speculators, of this last kind found their way to Eng- 
land in the time of Charles II. In the summer of 
16C2 Samuel Pepys saw the puppet plays in Covent 
Garden ; and in the autumn or that year they were 
exhibited before King Charles and the court in the 
palace of Whitehall. It was nearly at the same time 
that women were first introduced upon the Eng- 
lish stage to perform the female parts, which had 
hitherto been done by boys and young men, the latter 
having always been clean shaved before they put on 
the dress of Desdemona or Ophelia, or of such other 
delicate part as they might have to play. But this 
nearer approach to real life did not affect the popu- 
larity of the wooden actors. The Italian puppet-shows 
took amazingly, and continued for many years to be 
frequented by the fashionable world, and a large part 
of town. With many these shows even rivalled the 
Italian opera of that day; and Signor Nicolini Gri- 
maldi, that admirable Neapolitan singer and actor, was 
often deserted for his wooden countryman Policinella 
and the other puppets that played tragedy and comedy. 

[To be continued.] 



ATMOSPHERIC RAILWAY. 

(Prom the Supplement to the Penny Cyclopaedia.) 

Ix a brief sketch of the history of this invention, in a 
lecture delivered by Mr. Vignoles (then professor of 
civil engineering at University College, London), to 
the Royal Cornwall Polytechnic Society, in October, 
1842, that gentleman observed that the idea of produc- 
ing motion by atmospheric pressure was conceived by 
Papin, the well-known French engineer, nearly two 
centuries since ; and that, after slumbering for more 
than a century, the subject had been successively taken 
up by Messrs. Lewis, Medhurst, Vallance, and Pinkus, 
and lastly by Mr. Clegg, by whom, in connection with 
the late Mr. Jacob Samuda, the practicability of this 
mode of locomotion has been fully proved. Of the 

* * Bartholomew Fair.' f ' Every Man out of hie Humour.' 



connection of the name of Lewis with this invention 
the writer has no other intimation ; but the publica- 
tions of the late Mr. Medhurst, who was a practical 
mechanician or engineer, carrying on business in Lon- 
don, and known as the inventor of an ingenious print- 
ing-press, show that he not only cherished the idea of 
locomotion by atmospheric pressure for many years, 
but also devised, among other plans for its accomplish- 
ment, one which, excepting in practical detail, greatly 
resembles the present atmospheric railway. Medhurst 
published a short account of his scheme in 1810, under 
the title of 'A New Method of Conveying Letters and 
Goods by Air/ and in 1812 he issued another pamphlet 
of * Calculations and Remarks,' to prove the practica- 
bility and advantages of such a mode of conveyance ; 
but, as he observes in a more recent work, " these pub- 
lications met with that indifference and contempt 
which usually attend all attempts to deviate so widely 
from established customs." in the pamphlet from 
which this remark is quoted, which was published in 
1827 r entitled ' A New System of Inland Conveyance 
for Goods and Passengers/ is a fuller account of the 
various modes in which it was proposed to accomplish 
the desired object ; the principal of which were, first, 
the construction of an air-tight tunnel of sufficient 
magnitude to admit the passage of carriages within it, 
running upon iron rails, and propelled by forcing in 
air behind them by pumping machinery, the carriages 
being made so nearly to fit the tunnel that the air thus 
forced in could not pass them, but must act upon them 
as upon a piston ; secondly, the propulsion of such 
carriages, in certain cases, in the reverse direction, by 
exhausting the tunnel in front of them, instead of 
forcing in air behind them ; thirdly, the use of a 
smaller tunnel, containing what may be termed a 
piston-carriage for the conveyance of goods within the 
tube or tunnel, and having a kind of valve which 
would open during the passage of the piston-carriage 
so as to allow a rod from it to pass out of the tunnel, 
and afford the means of propelling a second carriage, 
for passengers, running upon a railway either above or 
alongside of the tunnel, in the open air ; and, fourthly, 
the construction of a railway or tram-road, in the centre 
of which should be laid a still smaller air-tight tube, 
containing a travelling piston which should be con- 
nected, as in the last-named contrivance, with an exte- 
rior carriage. One of the modes in which it was pro- 
posed to connect the carriage outside the tube or tun- 
nel with the piston within it, was by an air-tight water- 
valve, which however would only have been applicable 
on a perfect level, and with a very low amount of at- 
mospheric pressure ; and another, applicable to all 
levels, was formed by thin elastic sheets of iron or 
copper, shutting down upon a soft substance, so as to 
form an air-tight joint, but capable of being readily 
lifted up to allow the passage of the connecting-bar, 
by the action of a wheel connected with the piston. In 
all cases Medhurst appears to have contemplated 
moving the piston by forcing air into the tube behind 
it, and thereby forming a plenum, in preference to 
forming a vacuum by exhausting the tube in advance 
of it ; and he seems also to have formed a very inade- 
quate idea of the degree of atmospheric pressure neces- 
sary to produce rapid motion, imagining that in a 
tunnel ot thirty feet sectional area carriages might be 
propelled at the rate of sixty miles per hour without 
the condensation of the air becoming uncomfortable to 
the passengers, who, according to his original plan, 
would not have been shielded from its effects. 

Before the publication of the last-mentioned pam- 
phlet of Medhurst, but many years after the original 
promulgation of his scheme, Mr. Vallance, of Brighton, 
drew public attention to a smaller project, which, 
being brought forward at a season of extraordinary spe- 



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dilation, excited much interest, as well as no little 
ridicule. Vallance's scheme, which was fully explained 
in a pamphlet published by him in 1825, entitled * Con- 
siderations on the expedience of sinking capital in 
Railways/ waa, like Medhurst's original design, for 
conveying passengers along a railway laid within an 
air-tight tunnel, which he proposed to construct either 
of cast-iron or of vitrified clay resembling common 
brickwork, but less permeable to air ; but knowing 
that experiments had proved a very great loss of power 
to result from the attempt to impel air through a long 
pipe, he proposed to set the piston-carriage in motion 
solely by exhausting the tunnel in advance of it and 
suffering the full pressure of the atmosphere to act 
upon its rear. This plan, which was patented in 1823, 
was brought into experimental operation at Brighton 
upon a sufficiently large scale to prove the possibility of 
so singular a mode of transport, but, had there been no 
other difficulties, the objections of the travelling public 
to transmission in a dark close tunnel would have 
proved sufficient to prevent its general adoption. 

About the year 1836 the subject was revived in 
consequence of a patent being taken out by Mr. Henry 
Pinkus, an American gentleman residing in England, 
for an apparatus which he called the Pneumatic Rail- 
way, and which, as originally proposed, was to consist 
of a cast-iron tube from thirty-six to forty inches 
diameter internally, of an average thickness of three- 
quarters of an inch, and having a longitudinal slit or 
opening from one to two inches wide along what was, 
when laid in its proper position upon the railway, 
intended to be its upper side. Two ribs or cheeks, 
cast with the tube, along the sides of this opening, 
formed a channel or trough from four to five inches 
wide and deep, which, in order completely to close in 
the tube or tunnel, and prevent the ingress of air, was 
filled with a valvular cord of some soft and yielding 
substance strengthened by being formed upon a pe- 
culiarly constructed iron chain, so arranged that when 
the valve was laid in its place in the trough, the soft 
matter should completely exclude the passage of air, 
while the iron portion of the valve, lying upon and 
covering the edges of the vertical cheeks, should at 
once protect the valvular cord from injury and pre- 
vent its being forced into the tube by an external 
pressure. Within this tube was placed a piston- 
carriage, denominated the dynamic traveller, which 
was impelled forward by the pressure of the atmos- 
phere in its rear whenever, by the action of pumping 
machinery connected with the tube, a partial vacuum 
was formed in front of it. In the rear of the piston 
the dynamic traveller carried an apparatus for lifting 
the valvular cord out of its seat, so as to allow of the 
free passage along the slit or opening of a connecting 
bar oy which the dynamic traveller was placed in 
communication with an external carriage, called the 
governor, to which the vehicles to be drawn were at- 
tached ; and immediately after the passage of this 
connecting-rod the valve was restored to its place, its 
sides being fresh lubricated by an apparatus attached 
to the governor, and the whole being pressed firmly 
down by a wheel or roller. In this form of the appa- 
ratus the governor and the carriage attached to it ran 
upon rails attached to or cast upon the external sides 
of the pneumatic tube ; but in a subsequent modifica- 
tion of the invention the tube was greatly reduced in 
size, and laid down in the middle of the track of an 
ordinary railway, and a kind of pneumatic locomotive 
engine was substituted for the governor, the pistons 
of this engine working after the manner of a common 
locomotive engine, excepting that, in lieu of steam, a 
motive power was to be obtained from the atmosphere, 
by the aid of the rarefied tube, with which the engine was 
placed in communication. The former plan was pub- 



licly exhibited in a small model, and an experimental 
railway was partially laid down near the Kensington 
Canal for the trial of the latter upon a practical scale, 
under the auspices of an association formed for bring- 
ing the pneumatic railway into use ; but, from what 
cause we are not aware, the matter fell through. 

The failure which had attended so many attempts to 
bring pneumatic transport to a practical trial led to a 
very general feeling ot distrust, when, in 1840, Messrs. 
Clegg and Samuda brought forward their u Atmos- 
pheric Railway ;" but after some satisfactory experi- 
ments upon a more limited scale, those gentlemen 
arranged with the proprietors of the then unfinished 
Thames Junction or West London Railway for the 
temporary use of a portion of their line near Worm- 
wood Scrubbs, upon which they laid down about half 
a mile of railway, with a rising gradient partly of one 
in one hundred and twenty, and partly ot one in one 
hundred and fifteen, and with the disadvantage of a 
very badly laid track formed of old contractor's rails 
(which, it is curious to observe, had formed part of the 
original rails of the Liverpool and Manchester Rail- 
way) ; yet, notwithstanding these and other unfa- 
vourable circumstances arising from the imperfection 
of the machinery, and the shortness of the line, which 
would not admit of the attainment of a maximum 
speed, the results of the first trials, on the 11th of 
June, 1840, showed a maximum speed of thirty miles 
per hour with a load of five tons nine hundredweight 
in one carriage, and of twenty-two miles and a half 
per hour with a load of eleven tons ten hundredweight 
m two carriages. This experimental line, which had 
an atmospheric tube of only nine inches diameter, was 
publicly exhibited in action at intervals, for many 
months, during which it was visited by many eminent 
engineers of this and other countries, and its success 
was considered by the directors of the Dublin and 
Kingstown Railway to be so decisive, that they deter- 
mined to adopt the atmospheric mode of working upon 
a projected extension of their line from Kingstown to 
Dalkey, the gradients and curves of which rendered it 
unsuitable for working by locomotive engines. This 
line, which was so far completed as to be ready for 
working in August, 1843, is at present (December, 
1844) the only line of atmospheric railway in existence, 
the first-mentioned line having been removed to allow 
the completion of the West London Railway, which is 
worked uy locomotives ; but though no other lines are 
yet made, the London and Croydon Railway Company 
have recently obtained parliamentary sanction to a plan 
for laying down a line of atmospheric railway, along- 
side of their present road, from London to Croydon, 
and making an extension of the same from Croydon 
to Epsom, by which arrangement there will be a com- 
plete atmospheric line of about eighteen miles, half of 
which will run parallel with and close to a railway 
worked by locomotive engines, thus affording the most 
satisfactory data for comparison between the two 
modes of transport. 

{To bo continued.] 



CHAUCER'S 
CANTERBURY TALES. 



III. — The Knight's Tale— continued. 



In the grove, at the place and time appointed, Arci'.c 
and Palamon met : — 

Then changen gan the colour of their fuce ; 

Right as the hunter in the regne of Thrace 

That itondeth at a gappe with a spear, 

When hunted if the hou or the bear, 



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And hearcth him come rushing in the greves,* 
And breaking both the bought*, and (he leaves, 
And thinketh-r-Here cometh my mortal enemy, 
Withouten fail he must be dead or I ; 
For either I must slay him at the gap, 
Or he must slay me, if that me mishap :- 
So fareden they in changing of their hue. 

There was no " Good day" exchanged, no saluting ; but 
presently helping each other to arm, they rushed to 
the combat with their sharp spears — Palamon appear- 
ing like a wild lion, and Arcite as a cruel tiger. 

Theseus that morning rode forth with Hypolita and 
Emily, and his court, all clad in green, to hunt, and by 
chance came to the very grove where the two knights 
were fighting ; and where 

Under the sun he looked, and anon 
He was 'ware of Arcite and Palamon, 

and saw that 

The brigbte swordes wenten to and fro 
So hideously, that with the lea3te stroke 
It seemed that it woulde fell an oak. 

Rushing between the combatants, Theseus commanded 
tlicm to desist, and to tell him what bold men they 
were who thus ventured to fight without any proper 
officer standing by. Palamon hastily answered, Sire, 
what needeth many words? We have both deserved 
death. Two miserable wretches are we, weary of our 
lives; and as thou art a rightful lord and judge, show 
mercy to neither of us. Slay me first for charity's 
sake, but slay my companion also. This is Arcite, who 
came to thy gate calling himself Philostrate, and who 
has so long deceived thee, that thou hast made him 
thy chief squire. This is he that loves Emily. And 
since the day is come that I must die, I confess plainly 
that I am Palamon. 

Theseus said, This is a short conclusion, and I will 
record it. There is no need to humiliate you with the 
hangman's cord ; you shall die by the weapon of mighty 
Mars. 

Then began the queen, and Emily, and all the ladies 
of the train, to weep for pity. Have # mercy, lord ! 
they cried, falling upon their knees. And at last the 
fierce mood of Theseus was assuaged. He began to 
think that every man will help himself in love, if he 
can, and he looked with compassion upon the women, 
who wept continually. So when his ire had departed 

He gan to looken up with eyen ligbf^ 

and spoke thus : — 

The God of love, ah, Benedicite ! 
How mighty and bow great a lord is he. 
Against his might, there gainen non obstacles, 
He may be clep'd a God, for his miracles, 
For he can maken at his owen guise, 
Of every heart, as that him list devise. 

Loo»k here upon this Arcite and this Palamon ! They 
were out of prison, might have lived royally in Thebes — 
they knew I was their mortal enemy, and that their 
death is the penalty for their coming into my hands, 
yet Jiath Love brought them hither : — 

Who maye be a fool, but if he love ? 
Behold for Goddes sake, that sittest above ! 
See, how they bleed ! 

And, best of all, she, for whom they do all this, knows 
no more of it than a cuckoo or a nare. But I, in my 
time, have been a servant of Love, and am aware how 
sorely it can oppress a man. So I forgive you tin's 
trespass, and you shall both swear never more to make 
war upon me or my beloved country, and to become as 
far as possible my friends. The knights swore as he 
wished. 
To speak of wealth" and lineage, continued Theseus, 
* Groves. 



each of ye were worthy of Emily, though she were a 
duchess or a queen, but ye may not both wed her : 
one of you, all be him loth or lief,* 
He must go pipen in an ivy leaf. 

Now hearken to what I propose. Each of you shall 
go where he pleases, and this day fifty weeks hence 
return with a hundred knights armed ready for battle. 
And this I promise, as I am a knight, that wnoever with 
his hundred shall slay his antagonist or drive him out 
of the lists, shall have Emily to wife. I will make the 
lists here in this place. And God so judge me as I 
shall judge truly. 

Who looketh lightly now but Palamon 1 

Who springeth up for joye but Arcite ? 

Who could it tell, or who could it endite, 

The joye that is maked iu the place, 

When Theseus hath done so fair a grace? 
And now Theseus goes briskly to work to prepare 
the royal lists ; never before in the world was there so 
noble an amphitheatre as the one he built. Its com- 
pass was a mile about. It had walls of stone, with 
ditches outside. The shape was round, and the scats 
were so arranged that no man hindered another from 
seeing. On the eastern and western sides were gates 
of marble. In brief, never was there raised in such 
limits such a place ; for all the most skilful artificers, 
painters, and sculptors of the kingdom were engaged 
by Theseus for its erection. 

For the performance of rites and sacrifices, Theseus 
raised an oratory on the eastward gate in worship of 
Venus ; and another on the western gate in remem- 
brance of Mars ; and a third in a turret on the wall, of 
white alabaster and red coral, in worship of Diana. 
But I must not forget to speak of the noble carvings 
and pictures, or the shape and countenances of the 
figures, that were in these three oratories. 

First in the temple of Venus mayst thou see, 

Wrought on the wall, full piteous to behold, 

The broken sleepes, and the sikesf cold, 

The sacred teares, and the waimentings, J 

The fiery strokes of the desirings, 

That Love's servants iu this life enduren ; — 

The oathes that their covenants assuren. 

Pleasance and Hope, Desire, Foolhardiness, 

Beauty and Youth, and Richess, 

Charmes and Force, Lesings and Flattery, 

Dispence,} Business, and Jealousy, — 

That weared of yellow goldes|| a garland, 

And had a cuckoo sitting on her hand ; 

Feastds, instruments, and caroles and dances, 

Lust and array, and all the circumstances 

Of Love, which that I reckon and reckon shall 

By order weren painted on the wall, 

And more than I can make of mention ; 

For sothly\ all the Mount of Citheron, 

There** Venus hath her principal dwelling, 

Was showed on the wall in portraying, 

With all the garden, and the lustiness. ff 

Nought was forgotten : — The porter Idleness ; 

Ne Narcissus, the fair of yore agone ; 

Ne yet the folly of King Solomon ; 

Ne yet the greate strength of Hercules ; 

Th' euchantment of Medea and Circe's ; 

Ne of Turnus the hasty fierce courage, 

Ne riche Croesus caitif in servage. 

Thus may ye see that wisdom nor riche'ss, 

Beauty nor sleighte, strength nor hardiness, 

Ne may with Venus holden cham party ;|J 
for as she pleases she may guide the world. A thousand 
more examples might be given, but let these suffice. 
The statue of Venus was truly glorious, as she appeared 
floating on the sea, partially covered by the green and 
transparent waves : 

* Glad. f Sighs. J Lamentations. § Expense. 
|| The flower called the tumsol, which is yellow. 
^ Truly. ** Where. ff Enjoyment or delight. 

XX Sliare of power. 



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A citole* in her right hand hadde the, 
And on her head, rail seemly for to tee, 
A rose garland fresh and well smelling, 
Above her head her doves flickering. 

In the temple of mighty Mars the Red, the wall was 
painted like the interior of the great temple of Mars 
in Thrace, where the god hath his sovereign mansion. 

First on the wall was painted a forest, 
In which there wonnetnf neither man nor beast, 
With knotty, gnarry,$ barrel, trees old, 
Of stubbes sharp and hideous to behold, 
In which there ran a rumble and a swough, 
As though a storm should bursten every bough ; 
And downward from a hill, under a bent,§ 
There stood the temple of Mars armipotent, 
Wrought all of burndd steel, of which th' entree 
Was long and strait, and ghastly for to see ; 
And thereout came a rage and such a vise,|| 
That it made all the gates for to rise. 
The northern light in at the doore shone, 
For window on the wall ne was there none, 
Through which men mighten any light discern. 
The door was all of adamant etern', 
Yclenchdd overthwart and endelong 
With iron tough ; and for to make it strong, 
Every pillar the temple to sustene^ 
Was tonne-great, of iron bright and sheen. 
There saw I first the dark imagining 
Of Felony, and all the compassing ; 
The cruel ire, red as any glede,** 
The pick-purs£, and eke the nail drede, 
The smiler with the knife under the cloak ; 
The she pen ft burning, with the black e smoke ; 
The treason of the murdering in the bed ; 
The open war, with wounde* all be-bled ; 
ConteseJJ with bloody knife, and sharp men4ce. 
All full of chirking was that sorry place ! 
The slayer of himself yet saw I there, 
His heartd's blood bath bathed all his hair ; 
The nail ydriven in the shode§§ on height ; 
The colde death, with mouth gaping upright 
Amiddes of the temple sat Mischance, 
With discomfort and sorry countenance ; 

* A musical instrument, supposed to be a kind of dulcimer, 
t Dwelleth. % Gnarled. § Steep, or declivity. 

H Rush. T Sustain. ** Burning coal, 

ft Stable. XX Contest. §§ Hair of the nead. 



Yet saw I Woodness* laughing in his rage, 
Armed Complaint, Outhe£s,t ***& fierce Outrage ; 
The carrion J in the bush with throat ycarven, 
A thousand slain, and not of qualm ystarveu ;§ 
The tyrant, with the prey by force yreft ; 
The town destroyed — there was nothing left. 
Yet saw I burnt the shippes hoppesteres ;jj 
The hunt^ ystrangled with the wilde bears ; 
The sow fretting** the child right in the cradle ; 
The cook yscalled for all his long ladle : 
Nought was forgot by th' infortune of Marte.ff 
The carter overridden with his carte, 
Under the wheel full low he lay adown. 

Above, painted in the tower, Conquest sat, in great 
honour, with a sword suspended by a thread over his 
head. The statue of Mars, armed, looked grim, and a 
wolf stood before him at bis feet, 

With eyen red, and of a man he eat. 

The walls of the temple of Diana were painted every- 
where with stories of the hunt and of shame-faced 
chastity : of Calisto, who offended Diana and was 
turned into a bear, and afterwards into the load-star ; 
of Acteon pursued by his own bounda for having whilst 
bunting discovered the goddess bathing ; of Atalanla, 
and Meleager, and many others, who hunted the wild 
boar, and Buffered in consequence from Diana much 
care and misery. The goddess sat on a hart full high, 

With smalle houudes all about her feet ; 
And underneath her feet she had a moon, 
Waxing it was, and shoulde wauen soon. 
In gaudy green her statue clothed was, 
With bow in hand j 

and arrows in the quiver at her back. 

Thus were the lists made and arranged by Theseus, 
at his great cost ; and wondrously the whole pleased 
him. And now the day approached of the return of 
Palamon and Arcite. 

* Madness. f Outcry. J A putrefying body of the dead. 

§ That is to say, not ystarven, or dead, from disease, or qualm, 

|| The meaning seems to be the ship was burnt even as she— 
ster, danced— AejyM, on the waves ; for of those two Saxon words 
that we have italicised hoppesteres appears to have been formed 

^ Hunter. ** Devouring. 

ft The Italian form of the word Mars. 
[To be continued.] 



'The Combat interrupted., 



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[Harfri**tou Church, from the South-east.] 



BARFRESTON CHURCH. 

On the chalky downs between Canterbury and Dover, 
about midway between the two, and about two miles 
north of the turnpike-road, is situated one of the 
earliest specimens of our ecclesiastical architecture 
yet remaining in a state of good preservation. It is 
the interesting little church of Barfreston, to which has 
been very commonly assigned an Anglo-Saxon origin, 
chiefly on account of the style of its arches. It has 
latterly been shown that the round arch was not a pe- 
culiarity of the Anglo-Saxons; and Mr. Charles 
Clarke, in Britton's ' Architectural Antiquities of 
Great Britain/ has assigned reasons for fixing the date 
of the erection about the end of the eleventh century. 
His reasoning is, that prior to the Conquest the parish 
appears to have been in a great measure uncultivated, 
and not to have belonged to any great proprietor. 
Subsequent to that event the whole parish oecame the 
property of Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and after him it 
was divided into the two manorial portions of Bar- 
freston and Hartanger, each of which was held by the 
service of performing watch and ward, and otherwise 
contributing to the defence of Dover Castle. Barfres- 
ton, in the Domesday Survey, was returned as consist- 
ing of two yokes, one of which is stated to be worth 
10*., the other being untaxed, and both were given to 
Hugh de Port. Hartanger became the property of 
Simon FitzAdam, who held it as a knight's tec of Dover 
Castle, by the service of fifteen days' ward, and in the 
Domesday Survey it is valued at CO*. By these two 
families, and about this time, Mr. Clarke supposes the 
edifice to have been erected, and some peculiarities in 
the construction of the church seem to warrant the 
conclusion. 

The church itselt is but small, suitable to the size of 
the parish, which is stated by Hasted to contain four 
hundred and seventy acres ; but in the Population 

No. 833. 



Returns of 1841 the number is given as three hundred 
and sixty only, and the population at one hundred and 
twenty-five, of whom one hundred and twenty-three 
had been born in the county. The church consists of 
a nave and chancel, the whole interior length of which 
is about forty-three feet ; the width of the nave is six- 
teen feet eight inches, of the chancel thirteen feet six 
inches; they are separated from each other by a round- 
headed arch with zigzag; mouldings, having on each 
side an arched niche, which Mr. Clarke supposes were 
for the enclosure of the seats claimed for trie manors 
already noticed, and were partially open for allowing 
a view of the altar, with the offices of religion there 
performed, though now closed with plaster and white- 
wash. At the west end are two windows, one of which 
is large, with a mullion. At the east end are three 
arched windows, with a circular one above, surrounded 
with a band of heads, interspersed with deformed 
animals and flowers. On the south and north sides 
are four windows, between niches, of which there are 
five on the south side of the nave, with pointed arches, 
while the windows of the chancel have something like 
ogee arches, and the four niches have round arches. 
There are ornamented string-courses dividing the ele- 
vation into two parts, but at different heights in the 
nave and chancel. There are two entrances on the 
south side, of which the principal one is in the nave, 
and of this we give a representation. 

This doorway, as will be seen, is very richly orna- 
mented. On the transom of the arch, Christ is re- 
presented in the centre throned on a cloud, with the 
right hand elevated as giving the benediction ; the other 
rests on a book lying on his right knee, and surrounded 
with foliage. Two scroll cornices surround this, and 
on the architrave above is a figure with uplifted hands. 
The architrave itself, in a double circuit, contains, 
in twenty-six compartments, each separated by foliage, 
a series of figures in various uttitudes, but of which 

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the meaning is wholly lost. On the pillars on the 
right hand of the door is the sculpture of a military 
figure on horseback, which in its general appearance 
resembles the horsemen in the Baycux tapestry, though 



the helmet is rather flatter. There is no tower, but 
formerly a wooden turret was added, which has been 
long since removed. Under the windows at the east 
end are two recesses, " conjectured," says Mr. Clarke, 
11 to have been formed [as places of sepulchre] for 
those owners of the manors within the parish who 
were the constructors of the church, as they are evi- 
dently an after work, yet of sufficient antiquity." 

Though occasionally subjected to the process of 
white- washing, the whole has been preserved in a 
tolerably perfect state, and has been recently repaired 
in a very good taste, and at an expense, it is said, of 
nearly two thousand pounds. It stands nearly in the 
centre of the parish, and is dedicated to St. Mary. It is 
a rectory, in the gift of St. John's College, Oxford, and 
in the • Report of the Commissioners appointed by 
his Majesty to inquire into the Ecclesiastical Revenue 
of England and Wales,' published in 1835, the church 
is stated to be capable of accommodating one hundred 
persons, and the net yearly value of the rectory to be 
182/., exclusive of 200/. per annum allowed by the 
College. The soil of the parish on the hills is chiefly 
chalk, and not very fertile ; the valleys have a deeper 
staple of clay, and are more productive. The whole is 
chiefly arable. It is said to be exceedingly healthy. 
Hasted gives a curious account of a funeral, in which 
the deceased, the persons officiating, and the mourners, 
had all attained ages varying from' eighty to one hun- 
dred years. It has no fair, nor any charitable endow- 
ments. 

We may add that the road to Barfreston (pronounced 
Barston) from Dover furnishes a very pleasant excur- 
sion, embracing a great variety of scenery; the heights 
of West Cliff", the low, quiet, rural seclusion of River, 
the plantations that occasionally intervene, the open 
down with its border of cultivation near the road, and 
the ocean opening out from behind, after a consider- 
able part of the elevation has been gained. 



At the southern extremity of the parish are found 
some Roman tumuli, but the principal lie in the adjoin- 
ing parish of Sibertswell. 1 he surface of the whole of 
these Downs, known as Barham Downs, though lying 
in several parishes, is an alternation of hill and dale. On 
one of the elevations is Three-Barrow Down, so called 
from three barrows or tumuli on it. At this spot are 
some curious remains of Roman intrenchments ; the 
earthworks are large, the trenches deep, and the 
whole of considerable extent, occupying the entire 
front of Denn Hill on the edge of the Downs. These 
intrenchments are said to have formed the principal 
camp of Caesar, and were certainly well adapted for 
such a purpose, as from thence he commanded the 
country he had passed, and on the shore of which he 
had left his fleet, before he prepared himself for an 
advance. There are many other Roman remains in 
different parts of these Downs. 



CASSETTA DE' BURATTINI. 

[Concluded from p. 109 ] 

At this time or early in the eighteenth century the 
puppet-show manager was not an Italian, but a native 
of this island, named Powell, who has been handed 
down to the admiration of posterity in the 'Tatler * and 
* Spectator,' and whose fame has been preserved in 
other enduring records. This Powell, it appears, ex- 
hibited alternately in Covent Garden, London, and at 
a theatre of his own in the gay city of Bath. Steele 
and Addison— for both these eminent writers had a 
hand in the papers about Powell in the • Taller ' — are 
supposed to nave typified, by the character and doings 
of the puppet-showman and his rivals, a fierce literary 
controversy between Hoadley and Blackball, Bishop of 
Exeter; but, read in their obvious sense, their descrip- 
tions are very amusing. All the women, they say, are 
gadding after the puppet-show, and Mr. Powell, speak- 
ing for his Punch, is bespattering people of honour, 
and saying many things which ought not to be said. 
"I am credibly informed," says Steele, •• that hcniK.kes 
a profane lewd jester, whom he calls Punch, speak to 
the dishonour of Isaac Bickcrslaff with great fami- 
liarity I think I need not say much to con- 
vince all the world that this Mr. Powell, for that is his 

name, is a pragmatical and vain person But 

I would have him to know that I can look beyond his 
wires, and know very well the whole trick of his art ; 
and that it is only by these wires that the eye of the 
spectator is cheated, and hindered from seeing that 
there is a thread in one of Punch's chops, which draws 
it up and lets it fall at the discretion of the said Powell, 
who stands behind and plays him, and makes him 
speak saucily of his betters." In another place the 
'Tatler ' speaks out still more plainly. — '• Mr. Powell,*' 
says the fictitious Bickerstaff, " was so disingenuous as 
to make one of his puppets (I wish I knew which of them 
it was) declare, by way of prologue, that one Isaac 
Bickerstaff, a pretended esquire, had written a scurril- 
ous piece to tne dishonour of that rank of men 

I do therefore solemnly declare, notwithstanding that 
I am a great lover of art and ingenuity, that if I hear 
he opens any of his people's mouths against me, I shall 
not fail to write a critique upon his whole perform- 
ance; for I must confess, that I have naturally so 
strong a desire of praise, that I cannot bear reproach, 
though from a piece of timber. As for Punch, who 
takes all opportunity of bespattering me, I know very 
well his origin, and have been assured by the joiner 
who put him together that he was long in dispute with 
himself whether he should turn him into several pegs 
and utensils, or make him the man he is. The same 
person confessed to me that he had once actually laid 
aside his head,. for a nut-cracker. As for his scolding 



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wife, however she may value herself at present, it is 
very well known that she is but a piece of crab-tree. 
This artificer further whispered in my ear, that all his 
courtiers and nobles were taken out of a quickset 
hedge not far from Islington ; and that Dr. Faustus 
himself, who is now so great a conjurer, is supposed to 
have learned his whole art from an old woman in that 
neighbourhood, whom he long served in the figure of 
a broomstick." 

This Powell the puppet-showman, and his drama of 
4 Dr. Faustus,' which is said to have been performed 
to crowded houses throughout two seasons, to the utter 
neglect of good plays and living players, did not escape 
the keen picture-satire of Hogarth. Jn one of his 
plates a great crowd is seen rushing into a doorway, 
over which Punch or a harlequin is pointing to the in- 
sci iption, " Dr. Faustus is here ;" behind the crowd a 
woman is wheeling a barrow and crying about as waste 
paper the works of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, Otway, 
Dryden, Congrcve, &c, with which the said wheel- 
barrow is filled. In this picture Powell and his 
puppets appear as rivals to that famous conjuror, 
mountebank, and sleight-of-hand man, Faux or Fawkes, 
who has taken post oa the opposite side of the way, 
and is also drawing a crowd to see his performances; 
but it should seem that these two great luminaries 
sometimes shined in conjunction, and that the con- 
jurer and the puppet-showman were occasionally close 
allies. In an advertisement and puff which has scarcely 
been surpassed even in the puffing age we live in, it 
is said— " Whereas the town hath been lately alarmed, 
that the famous Fawkes was robbed and murdered, re- 
turning from performing at the Duchess of Bucking- 
ham's house at Chelsea; which report being raised and 
printed by a person to gain money to himself, and preju- 
dice the above-mentioned Mr. Fawkes, whose unparal- 
leled performance has gained him so much applause 
from the greatest of quality, and most curious observers; 
we think, both in justice to the injured gentleman and 
for the satisfaction of his admirers, that we cannot 
please our readers better than to acquaint them he is 
alive, and will not only perform his usual surprising 
dexterity of hand, posture- master, and musical clock, 
but, for the greater diversion of the quality and gentry, 
lias agreed with the famous Powell, of the Bath, for the 
season, who has the largest, richest, and most natural 
figures and finest machines in England, and whose 
former performances in Covent Garden were so en- 
gaging to the town as to gain the approbation of the 
best judges, to show his puppet plays along with him, 
beginning at the Christmas holidays next, at the Old 
Tennis Court, in James's Street, near the Haymarkct." 
At one time (in the days of good Queen Anne) Powell, 
acting for himself and by himself, placed nis show 
under the piazzas of Covent Garden. The ancient 
under-sexton and pew-opener of St. Pauls Church, 
Covent Garden, complained to the * Spectator ' that he 
found his congregation now take the warning of the 
church bell, which he had daily rung for twenty years, 
for morning and evening prayer, as a summons to 
Powell's puppet-show under the piazzas, instead of a 
summons to church. " I have," says the poor bell- 
man, " placed my son at the piazzas, to acquaint the 
ladies that the bell rings for church, and that it stands 
on the other side of the Garden, but they only laugh at 
the child. I desire you would lay this letter before all 
the world, that I may not be made such a tool for the 
future, and that Punchinello may choose hours less ca- 
nonical. As things are now, Mr. Powell has a full 
congregation, while we have a very thin house." 

Powell, as has been observed, was an innovator ;* for 
while his contemporary puppet-show managers per- 
formed the 'Old Citation of the World ' and 'Noah's 
* « London.' Edited by Charles Knight. 



Flood,' after the fashion of the ancient mysteries and 
moralities, Powell introduced a pig to dance a minuet 
with Punch.* * Whittington and his Cat/ as played by 
Powell's puppets, rivalled the popularity of the opera 
of * Ilinaldo and Armida,'as played and sung by flesh 
and blood Italians in the Haymarket.t Powell was 
deformed and a cripple, but he made hay while the 
snn shone, and grew rich by exhibiting his puppet- 
shows before that taste passed away. His friend, and 
some time coadjutor, Mr. Fawkes, the conjurer, also 
made a large fortune. Our conjurers and showmen 
are not so fortunate and so worldly wise now-a-days ; 
but other exhibitors, and impostors of a much less in- 
nocent and infinitely less amusing kind, still grow rich 
upon the bad taste and credulity of the times. After 
a reign longer than that of most sovereigns, Punch 
was compelled to abdicate the realms of Covent Gar- 
den and St. James's, and all the puppets were fain to 
retreat to obscurer regions. The grown-up people 
of quality had renounced their allegiance, and after 
this revolution the puppet-show (however big the 
figures might be) was considered as an amusement fit 
for none but children and poor people. It, however, 
took a long time to put down the puppet theatres alto- 
gether. In the early part of the present century there 
was a theatre of the kind in the vicinity of Fleet Street, % 
and another in some street or lane in the heart of the 
city. We well remember seeing * Romeo and Juliet' 
played at one of these houses, to the evident delight of 
an audience which certainly did not consist entirely of 
children. But now the only remnant of these glories 
is to be found in the Punch of the streets, and the little 
puppets that dance in the streets upon a board, or that 
exhibit their pleasant antics in the booth of some 
country fair. Partridge's friend, the puppet-showman, 
who was all for the grand and serious, boasted that he 
had thrown out Punch and his wife Joan, and all such 
idle trumpery, together with 4, a great deal of low 
stuff that did very well to make folks laugh, but was 
never calculated to improve the morals of young 
people, which (he continued) certainly ought to be 
principally aimed at in every puppet-show." " I would 
by no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession, ' 
answered Jones, " but I should have been glad to have 
seen my old acquaintance, Master Punch, for all that ; 
and so far from improving, I think that by leaving out 
him and his merry wife Joan you have spoiled your 
puppet-show." But Master Punch and Mistress Joan, 
or Judy, could not be left out long : the sympathies of 
the world were with them, and so they were brought 
back, and made to survive ail the fine lords, kings, 
kaisers, queens, empresses, heroes, and patriarchs that 
ever figured in the puppet-show; and, indeed, (the 
dancing-dolls being so insignificant), Punch may now 
be considered not only as the only genuine representa- 
tive which remains of our old stage, but also as the 
only living representative of the puppet world. The 
case is somewhat different in Italy, for there fantoccini 
theatres remain, and other dramas are played in the 
streets besides that of Punch and Judy ; yet, even there, 
Punch indisputably takes the foremost rank; nay, it 
has been considered that he has a whole kingdom 
— Naples, the only kingdom in the Peninsula ; as the 
Lombardo-Venetian kingdom of the Emperor of 
Austria is but a fiction— in allegiance to him. But 
Punch, under the various phases of his existence, in 
Italy and in the other parts of the wide world, in most 
of which he is found under some alias or other, is so 
grand a subject, that we must leave the discussion of it 
for another paper. 

* 4 Spectator/ f Id. 

% In the days of Beu Jonson, the place where the Fantoccini 
were exhibited daily was by Fleet Uridge. 



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RED SNOW AND RAIN. 



In the course of Captain Parry's Arctic Expedition it 
was a matter of curiosity and surprise with him and 
his party to find that nearly all the ice over which they 
passed yielded, by heavy pressure, a light rose-coloured 
tint. This was brighter in some places than in others, 
and the depth to which the colour extended in the 
snow was also various ; but the fact itself was matter 
of cvery-day observation. The loaded sledges in pass- 
ing over the hardened snow produced this tinge upon it ; 
and though this was at first attributed to the colouring 
matter being pressed out of the birch of which they 
were made, yet when the runners of the boats and 
even their own footmarks presented a similar appear- 
ance, the observers were obliged to seek for other means 
of accounting for the phenomenon. But on bottling 
some of the red snow, and examining it closely with 
a microscope, they were unable to discover anything 
which could give it this unnatural colour. 

The appearance of rose-coloured snow was remarked 
by Captain Ross on many occasions. In Baffin's Bay 
he found whole mountains reddened by it, to the ex- 
tent of six miles in length and six hundred feet in 
height. This snow was examined, and was found to 
contain what appeared to be a living vegetable or- 
ganization. The most plausible supposition as to the 
origin of these minute vegetables was, that they were 
foreign bodies wafted through the air from some dis- 
tant spot, and accumulated into masses by the melting 
of the snow on which they had been deposited. They 
were considered as belonging to the class of cryptoga- 
mic plants, and as forming the species named by 
Agardh Protococcm nivalis. 

The later researches of naturalists, and especially of 
Mr. R. J. Shuttleworth, have, however, established 
the fact that the greater part of the snow thus tinged 
with red is filled with vast numbers of animals of 
exceeding minuteness, but endowed with swift motion, 
and distinguished by varying depths of colour. Some 
patches of coloured snow collected on the Grinisel, in 
those places where the snow never entirely melts, were 
taken for the examination which supplied this extra- 
ordinary fact. The colouring matter was contained in 
the intervals of the coarse granular arrangement com- 
mon in old snow, and thus gave a veined appearance 
to the surface. The coloured spots extended several 
inches, sometimes a foot, beneath the surface. Occa- 
sionally the colour wa3 much brighter at a few inches 
depth than at the top. Wherever rocks or stones had 
occasioned little wells in the snow, the colouring was 
conspicuous, and extended the whole depth ; but in 
general it penetrated to a very trifling extent. 

When placed in vessels of earthenware, the snow 
gradually melted, and the colouring matter was de- 
posited on the sides and bottom of the vessels in the 
form of a deep red powder. On being placed under a 
powerful microscope, this powder proved to be a collec- 
tion of organized bodies of different forms and natures, 
some of which were vegetables, but a much larger pro- 
portion animals. Many of them were of. a bright red 
approaching to blood-colour ; some were crimson ; 
others of a very deep brown, or of an opaque red. There 
were also other bodies, either colourless or greyish, the 
greater portion of which were evidently of vegetable 
origin. Those which mainly contributed to give the 
coloured tinge to the snow were small infusory ani- 
mals of a reddish brown hue, and of an oval form. 
They were in great numbers, and nearly opaque : their 
movements were performed with astonishing rapidity, 
and were chiefly horizontal ; but there were some 
among them whose bodies were observed to be pear- 
shaped rather than oval, and these often stopped in the 
middle of their course, and turned rapidly round on 



their pointed extremities without changing their places. 
The only traces of organization observable in these 
creatures were one or two reddish and nearly trans- 
parent spots, occurring either in the centre or at one 
of the extremities. These were supposed to be the 
stomachs of the animals. 

Others of the infusoria were much larger than the 
above, brighter in colour, and to a considerable de- 
gree transparent. They were round or oval in shape, 
and were surrounded with a margin or colourless 
membrane. There was no trace of internal organiza- 
tion in these animals, and they were perfectly motion- 
less. Some very minute bodies were also found under 
the microscope of a beautiful blood-red colour, though 
somewhat transparent. These appeared to have a 
small cleft or very narrow opening at one of their 
edges. Their movement was in circles, and they 
turned upon their axes at the same time. There were 
others of a deeper colour in the centre, but surrounded 
with a colourless membrane. There was a transparent 
opening in the mass, at one determinate point towards 
the edge, having the shape of a half-moon, and com- 
municating with the membranous border. These were 
also motionless bodies, and it could not be determined 
with certainty to which genus to refer them. 

Thus in Alpine and in Arctic regions, where the 
temperature might be supposed to be inimical to animal 
life, there exists, among fields of perpetual snow, an 
infinite number of microscopic beings, constituting, as 
it were, a new world of discovery, only to be explored 
by means of the highest powers of our scientific instru- 
ments, and even then so imperfectly that we must 
wait for the progress of improvement to perfect these 
ere we can hope for anything beyond the most super- 
ficial acquaintance with the inhabitants of that snowy 
territory. 

To the existence of these red animalcula may also 
be chiefly attributed the several phenomena which 
have caused, at different periods, so much terror to 
superstitious and ignorant persons, namely, the red- 
coloured rain and dew, and the pools of red water, 
which have been repeatedly witnessed. Swammer- 
dam's description of the latter appearance has already 
been given in our account of Preternatural Rains (No. 
706) ; but there are others equally worthy of notice, to 
which we may briefly allude. It appears that, more 
than a century ago, a German named Weber, and also 
a French philosopher, witnessed the appearances al- 
luded to, and both accounted for them in the same 
manner. They gave a microscopic as well as a chemical 
examination to the subject, and found that the san- 
guine hue resulted from the presence in the water of 
innumerable animalcula; not visible to the naked eve. 
Their investigations were thus confirmatory of what 
had been already stated by Linnaeus and older philo- 
sophers, namely, that red infusoria were capable of 
giving that colour to water, which had been popularly 
supposed to forbode great calamities. Other descrip- 
tions of animalcula have also produced an extraor- 
dinary striped appearance in water. In 1820 Scoresby 
observed the waters of the Greenland sea to be striped 
alternately with green and blue, which colours were 
produced by myriads of small animals. In 1815 the 
waters of a lake in the south of Prussia were suddenly 
covered with red, violet, and grass-green spots, about 
the end of harvest. The neighbouring population were 
filled with superstitious dread ; nor was their terror 
abated when, in winter, the ice exhibited a similar 
appearance, being distinctly spotted on the surface, 
while it remained colourless beneath. The chemist 
Klaproth fortunately happened to be then engaged in 
active researches in the neighbourhood, and he under- 
took to ascertain the chemical ingritf ients of the colour*. 
In this case they were found to arise from an albumin 



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ous vegetable matter very similar to indigo, and which 
the chemist supposed to be produced by the decomposi- 
tion of vegetables in harvest. The transition in colour 
from green to violet and red, he explained by the 
absorption of more or less oxygen. 

More than two centuries ago, popular alarm was 
greatly excited in the neighbourhood of the city of 
Aix, by the fact that large blood-coloured drops were 
seen on the walls of the churches and houses, both in 
the city itself and in the hamlets and towns for some 
miles around. The lower orders, in their terror and 
inability to account for this strange appearance, took 
up the notion that it was caused by demons or witches 
engaged in shedding the blood of innocent babes. The 
philosophers, on the other hand, tried to satisfy them- 
selves with the belief that the rain came from vapours 
drawn up from red-coloured earth. But this was 
found to be untenable, on recollecting that evaporated 
fluids do not retain their former hues : for example, 
the distillation from red roses is a colourless water. 
The phenomenon was at last accounted for by M. 
Peiresc, whether truly or not perhaps admits of doubt. 
He had found, some months before, a chrysalis of a 
remarkable size and form, which he had confined in a 
box. Hearing one day a buzz within the box, he 
opened it, and discovered a beautiful butterfly, which 
immediately flew away, leaving at the bottom of the 
box a red drop the size of a shilling. It immediately 
occurred to him that the drops found on the walls of 
the city might have been caused by the change of 
great numbers of these insects from the chrysalis to 
the butterfly state. And he was the more disposed to 
believe this, because at that very time multitudes of 
the same description of butterfly were seen fluttering 
in the air. In company with some friends he made a 
more particular examination of the spots which were 
still visible on the houses, &c., and he found that they 
wore more frequent in hollows, and on sloping sur- 
faces, than on those which were fully exposed to the 
sky. This seems to favour his mode of explanation ; 
but if the colour in this one case may be attributed 
to the changes of the butterfly, there are very many 
others in which no such explanation can be given, and 
where the only plausible explanation of the phenome- 
non is found in the fact, that the atmosphere at certain 
periods, and in certain parts of the world, is loaded 
with minute beings capable of giving a perceptible 
tinge to the rain, by which they are swept to the earth, 
and also of colouring, to a greater or less degree, such 
stagnant pools of water as may exist in the places where 
they fall. 

ATMOSPHERIC RAILWAYS. 

[Concluded from p. 110.] 

The most important point in which the atmospheric 
railway of Messrs. Clegg and Samuda differs from pre- 
vious contrivances of the like character is the construc- 
tion of the valve, which, even when the speed of the 
piston and train is increased to fifty or sixty miles per 
hour (a speed frequently attained in experiments upon 
the Dalkey line), performs its office with surprising 
efficiency. The subjoined diagrams, without pretend- 
ing to give minute details, will show the nature of this 
contrivance : Fig. 1 representing a cross-section of the 
atmospheric tube with the valve closed, and Fig. 2 
with the valve open for the passage of the connecting- 
bar between the piston and the external carriage. The 
tube, which is formed of cast-iron, in convenient 
lengths, and flanged together, is laid in the middle of 
the railway track, and firmly secured to sleepers im- 
bedded in the road. Its diameter may be different on 
different lines, or (with a change of piston) on different 
pans of the same line, so as to accommodate the power 



to the resistance to be overcome ; but on the Dalkey 
line, which rises seventy- one feet in a distance of a 
mile and three-quarters, a tube of about fifteen inches 
is used. Along the upper side of the tube is the con- 
tinuous slit or opening, at a, Fig. 1, and a little on 
either side of it are the vertical ribs or checks b and c, 



Fig. 1 




cast with the tube, the space between which forms a 
trough wherein the valve may lie secure from injury 
The valve itself consists of a piece of strong leather, 
firmly enclosed between two pieces of iron, the under- 
most of which exactly fits the slit in the pipe, and has 
its lower surface concave, so that when it is shut down, 
as in Fig. 1, the internal circumference of the tube is 
perfect and unbroken, while the uppermost is flat, and 
broader than the slit, so that it prevents the valve being 
forced into the tube by the superincumbent pressure 
of the atmosphere. The leather is, on the side marked 
6, considerably wider than the upper plate, and its 
projecting edge is attached to the flat floor of the 
valve-trough, at the base of the cheek b, so as to form 
a continuous hinge. The more perfectly to prevent 
the ingress of air, the opposite or opening edge of the 
valve is, when closed as in Fig. 1, hermetically sealed 
with a composition of wax and tallow, which fills the 
small groove or space left between it and the cheek c, 
and is indicated by a dark mark in the cut. To pro- 
tect the valve more thoroughly the trough is closed in 
with a sheet-iron cover d, formed in lengths of about 
five feet, with lap-joints, hinged with leather to the 
top of the cheek b f and shutting down closely upm the 
top of the cheek c. The interior of the tube is com- 
pletely lined with a soft composition, which fills up all 
little irregularities, and renders the passage perfectly 
smooth and even ; and the piston is surrounded by 
leather collars in such a way as to be perfectly air- 
tight, and yet to move with very little friction. It is 
attached to the fore end of a rod which is seen in sec- 
tion at/ (Fig. 2), and which carries rollers so fixed as 
to lift up and open the valve immediately after the 
piston has passed, thus bringing it into the position in- 
dicated in Fig. 2, which allows room for the passage 
of the connecting-bar e t by which the piston is united 
to the foremost carriage of the train ; the iron cover d 
being previously raised and held open by a coulter and 
a series of wheels or friction-rollers attached to the 
carriage. After the connecting-bar has passed, a roller 
attached to the carriage presses the valve down into its 
seat, while a heater gliding along the mass of composi- 
tion at its opening edge melts it, and thereby seals the 
joint afresh. The cover d is then allowed to fall into 
its place, and all is ready for the passage of another 
train so soon as the piston shall have quitted the pipe 
so as to allow of its being exhausted afresh. The end 
of the tube behind the train is left open to admit the 
air by which the piston is to be impelled ; but the end 
in advance of the train is closed, and the air is pumped 
out from the tube by a branch pipe near it, leading to 
the air-pumps, which may be worked either by a 
steam-engine or by any other prime mover of sufficient 
power. It is proposea, in an extended line of railway, 
to place engines at intervals of two or three miles, and 



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to break or interrupt the continuity of the atmospheric 
tube at the principal stations, so as to allow of the 
use of switches, turn-tables, and the other ordinary 
arrangements of a railway station. 

While the opinions of leading engineers continue at 
variance as to the merits of this mode of working a 
railway, it may be well to say very little of its proposed 
advantages. Some of these it claims in common with 
every other mode of working by stationary instead of 
locomotive engines, of which the principal are — the 
facilities which it affords for ascending steep gradients, 
and consequently for constructing railways at less cost 
than where heavy cuttings and embankments are ne- 
cessary in order to procure easy slopes for the locomo- 
tive; the saving in the wear and tear, and conse- 
quently in the necessary strength and cost of the 
railway itself, in consequence of not having to convey 
the moving power with the train; and the security 
against collision, owing to the impossibility of moving 
two trains on the same stage or engine-length of rail- 
way at the same time. In like manner also some of 
the objections raised to this apply to every other mode 
of using stationary engines : such are the necessity of 
providing and constantly maintaining a power suf- 
ficient to conduct the largest amount of traffic which 
can ever be conveyed, which would render it as costly, 
as regards some large items of expense, to maintain a 
railway for the passage of four or live trains per diem 
as one upon which trains are constantly succeeding 
each other ; and the liability of derangement to the 
whole system in consequence of the failure of a single 
point in it. These are the principal grounds of ob- 
jection to what has been termed the inflexibility of the 
system, or, in other words, the comparative want of 
power to modify the mode of working according to the 
fluctuations of a variable traffic or the exigences arising 
from accident. In drawing a comparison between 
atmospheric and rope traction there is less difficulty, 
for while in many points the merits and demerits of 
the two are identical, the vacuum in the one supplying 
the place of the rope in the other, it cannot be ques- 
tioned that the train of an atmospheric railway is by 
far the most secure from accident, especially upon 
curves, it being as it were tied down to the track by 
the piston travelling within the tube; and also that, 
the difficulty of producing a valve which shall open 
wiih sufficient facility and close with sufficient exact- 
ness being once overcome, which it appears to be most 
perfectly, the friction and waste of power must be very 
much less in the atmospheric system than where a 
heavy rope and a long series of pulleys have to be put 
and kept in rapid motion; to say nothing of the 
chances of accident by the breaking of the rope, to 
which there is no equal risk as a parallel objection to 
the atmospheric system. Its safety is indeed one of 
the great advantages claimed fpr this mode of working 
a railway, as the worst which could happen in conse- 
quence of the failure of the apparatus would be the 
stopping of the train. In case it should be necessary 
to stop in the middle of the tube, so as to avoid collision 
with an obstacle on the road, the breaks will generally 
be found sufficient for the purpose, as there is not the 
immense momentum of the heavy locomotive to over- 
come ; but it is proposed, if needful, to introduce a 
safety valve in the piston, or an arrangement for ad- 
mitting air in front of it, in case of emergency. It is 
proposed generally to lay out atmospheric railways so 
nearly on the natural surface of the ground as to take 
advantage of many slopes of sufficient steepness for 
working by gravity alone ; but while tfiis has been 
much insisted upon by some advocates of the system 
as an advantage, it appears to be too little remembered 
that the advantage gained in one direction must in- 
evitably produce a corresponding disadvantage in 



traversing the line in the opposite direction. Even 
some of those who still question the economical appli- 
cation of the atmospheric in lieu of the locomotive 
system, consider it well adapted for use upon such in- 
clined planes as have hitherto been worked by ropes or 
by assistant engines. 



C HAUCER'S 
CANTERBURY TALES. 

IV.— The Knights Tale— concluded. 



True to their covenant, Palamon and Arcite appear at 
Alliens at the appointed time, each with his hundred 
knights, all well armed for the contest. And surely 
since the world began never was there so noble a 
company. Every lover of chivalry and of fame hath 
prayed that he might be one of the illustrious players 
in that glorious game, and happy was he who was 
chosen. 

Of the knights with Palamon, some were armed 
in a hauberk, breast-plate, and short cassock; some 
have a pair of large plates round their bodies, and 
some have a Persian shield. Again, some will be 
well armed about their legs, and have an axe ; some 
will have a mace of steel. In short, they were armed 
each after his own inclination. Among those who 
came with Palamon might be seen — 

Licurge himself, the greate King of Thrace : 
Black was his beard, and manly was his face j 
The circles of his cyeu in his head 
They gloweden betwixen yellow and red, 
And like a griffon looked he about, 
With combed haires on his browes stout ; 
His limbes great, his brawnes hard and strong, 
His shoulders broad, his at me* round and long; 
And as the guise was in his countree, 
Full high upon a car of gold stood he, 
With foure white bulles in the trace, 
Instead of coat-armour on his harness, 
With naile* yellow, and bright as any gold, 
He had a beare's skin, coal- black for old. 
His longc hair was comb d behind his back, 
As any raven's feather it shone fur black, 
A wreath of gold, a*m-great,* of huge weight, 
Upon his head sate full of stones bright, 
Of fine rubies and of diamonds. 

About his car there ran twenty or more great white 
dogs, accustomed to hunt the lion or the bear, who 
were now fast muzzled, and had collars of gold about 
their necks. 

With Arcite came the great Emeti ius, king of India, 
who sat upon a bay steed, and — 
trapped in steel, 
Covered with cloth of gold diapred wele, 
Came riding like the god of Anne*, Mars ; 
His coat armour was of a cloth of Tars, f 
Couched % with ]>earles white, and round, and great; 
His saddle was of burnt gold new ybeat ; 

A mantle hung upon his shoulders, — 

Bretful § of rubies red as fire sparkling; 
His ciispe hair like rinses was yruti, 
And that was yellow, and glittered as the sun ; 
His nose was hi^h, his even bright citrine,|j 
His lipjK-3 round, his colour was sanguine. 
» • » • 

And as a lion he his looking cast : 

His age appeared to be about five and twenty years; 

* Great or tltick as a man's arm. f A kind v( silk. 

X Laid or trimmed, or, as we should now say, pjwdeicu witk 
pearl*. 
§ Brimful. || Pale yellow, or citron colour. 



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His beard was well begunnc for to spring, 
His voice was as a rrumpc thundering ; 
Upon his head he wear'd of laurel green 
A garland fresh and lusty for to seen ; 
Upon his hand he bore for hi3 deduit* 
An eagle tame, as any lily white : 
A hundred lordes had he with him there, 
All armed, save their heads, in all their gear, 
Full richely in alle manner things ; 
For trusteth well that carles, dukes, kinges, 
Were gathered in this noble company, 
For love, and for increase of chivalry. 
About this king there ran on every part 
Full many a tame lion and leopart.f 

And in this manner came all the lord9 to Athens, on 
Sunday, in the early part of the day, and there alighted ; 
Theseus lodging them each according to his degree, 
and feasting them all in great honour. 

At night, or before daybreak of the next morning, 
Palamon sprung up, on hearing the lark sing, and 
went to the temple of Venus, where he knelt, and with 
sad heart prayed to the godd< 



Thou gladder of the Mount of Cit heron I 

have pity on me, for the love thou felt for Adonis. 
I do not desire on the morrow the vain glory of con- 
quest, but the possession of Emily. Find thou in 
what manner this may be accomplished, and I will 
worship thy temple ever more ; wheresoever I go I 
will do sacrifice on thy altar. And if ye will not do so, 
my lady sweet, I pray you then that Arcite may drive 
his spear through my heart to-morrow. 

Palamon then made his sacrifices, and waited the 
issue. After some delay, the statue of Venus shook, 
and made a sign, signifying, as he thought, that his 
prayer was accepted ; so with glad heart he went home. 

Soon after Palamon went to the temple of Venus — 
Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily, 

and went with her maidens to the temple of Diana, 
and performed all the accustomed rites. On the altar 
she began to prepare two fires, and when they were 
kindled, she tlius prayed— Oh, chaste goddess of the 
green woods, goddess of maidens, that for many a year 
bast known my heart, and what I desire, now help me ! 
Scud peace and love betwixt Palamon and Arcite. 
Turn their desires away from me. Quench all their 
busy torments. Or if my destiny be so shaped, that 1 
must needs have one of them, send me him that most 
destrcth me. 

The fires burnt clear on the altar while Emily thus 
spoke, but suddenly one of them was quenched, and 
then revived again ; and afterwards the other was also 
quenched, and quite died out, making a noise as 
though the brands were wet, and at the end of the 
brands issued what appeared to be bloody drops. 
Kmily in a frenzy of alarm began to cry out, when 
Diana appeared, bow in hand, and said — Daughter, 
cease thy grief. Thou shalt be wedded unto one of 
those that have so much care and woe on thy account, 
but which I may not tell. Farewell, I may no longer 
dwell here. As the goddess disappeared tne arrows in 
her quiver rang and clattered ; Emily, much astonished, 
said— What meaneth this? alas! Diana, I put myself 
into thy protection. 

The hour of Mars now following, Arcite went into 
his temple; and thus addressed the fierce divinity: 
--Oh, strong god, that in every kingdom and country 
holds the bridle of war in thine hand, have pity upon 
my sorrow, for the sake of the pain thou thyself felt 
when thou wooedst Venus. I am young, and ignorant, 
and suffer more for love than ever did any other living 
creature. She for whom I endure all this woe, eareth 
not whether I sink or float, and I know well that by 
* Pleasure. f beopard, 



my strength in these lists can I alone win her ; and I 
know that strength availeth not without thy aid. Then 
help me, lord ; give the victory to-morrow, and ever- 
more I will cause an eternal fire to burn before thee. 
I will also bind myself to this vow — my beard and my 
long hair, that have never yet known the razor or the 
shears, 1 will cut off and give to thee, and while I live 
be thy true servant. Now, lord, have pity on me. 
Give me the victory. I ask no more. 

As he ceased, the doors and the rings that hung on 
them clattered loudly, and Arcite was somewhat 
alarmed. But the fires then began to burn so brightly 
that all the temple was illuminated ; and the ground 
gave forth a sweet smell. Arcite threw more incense 
into the fire, and at last the hauberk of the statue of 
Mars rang, and Arcite 

heard a murmuring, 
Full low, and dim, that saide thus — Victory! 
For which he gave to Mars hon6ur and glory, 

and returned with joy and hope to his lodging. 

Great was the feast in Athens on the day of the 
combat. Incessant was the noise and clattering of 
horse and horsemen in the hostelries. Rich and strange 
were the armour and trappings of the lords as they 
rode upon their steeds to the palace. Loud were the 
sounds of the pipes, trumpets, kettle-drums, and 
clarionets. The palace was full of people scattered in 
groups about, conversing on the battle, some leaning 
towards one party, some the other. 

Theseus now caused the herald to announce his will 
to the assembled people; who said — The lord thus 
modifies his former purpose. No man on pain of 
death shall take arrows or dart or pole-axe or short 
pointed dagger into the lists, and no man shall ride 
more than one course with a sharp-headed spear. 
And whoever shall be overthrown shall not be slain, 
but be taken by force to a stake at the side, where he 
is to remain. And if the chief on either side be thus 
taken, or be otherwise slain, no longer shall the tourney 
last. 

Up gone the trumpes and the melody, 

and to the lists ride all the court, Theseus having the 
knights one on each side of him. Then come the 
queen and Emily, and all the remainder of the com- 
pany. When all were seated, Arcite entered with his 
hundred companions, displaying a red banner, through 
the gateway of Mars. At the same moment Palamon 
and his hundred entered the lists from beneath the 
gateway of Venus, displaying a white banner. The 
gates were then shut, the heralds ceased to ride up and 
down, and the loud cry arose — 

Do now your devoir, younge Kuightcs proud ! 

The spear goeth into the rest, the sharp spear into 
the side; there shafts are shivered upon thick shields, 
here the point is felt gliding into the very heart; 
spears spring high into the air, bright swords are 
drawn out; helmets are hewn, blood streams forth, 
bones arc broken by the weighty maces ; now 
Stumblen steedes strong, and down gocth all, 

and now the knight rolleth under foot, still striking 
at his foe with his truncheon ; but in vain, he is taken 
and brought to the stake, where he must abide, as one 
defeated. 

Often during the day have Palamon and Arcite 
met, and unhorsed each other. There is no tiger 
in the vale of Galiphay that has lost her whelp/" so 
Aiel in the heart as Arcite ; no lion in Belmaric that 
is hunted, or who is mad for hunger, so thirstoth for 
blood as Palamon. At last, after a mighty struggle 
with a host of combatants, Palamon was forced to the 
stake, amid the shouts of the people, the loud min- 
strelsy of the trumpeters, and the voices of the heralds. 



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Arcite, then taking off his helm, rode through the 
lists to where Emily sat ; she looked at him pleasantly, 
And was all hia in cheer, as his in heart 

But then Pluto, at the request of Saturn, who had been 
moved by the entreaties of Venus, caused a Fury to 
start up suddenly out of the ground before Arcite ; 
his horse starting aside, threw him ; and he pitched 
on his head on the ground, so 

That in the place he lay as he were dead, 
His breast to-bursten with his saddle-bow ; 
As black he lay as any coal or crow, 
So was the blood yrunnen in his face. 

He was borne to the palace of Theseus, and carefully 
tended. But nothing could heal his hurts ; 

Nature hath now no domination. 

And certainly where Nature will not werche,* 

Farewell physic ; go bear the man to church. 

Arcite then sent for Emily, and after dwelling upon 
his true love for her, and his strife with Palamon for 
her sake, said, 

Know I none 
So worthy to be loved as Palamon, 
That serveth you, and will do all his life ; 
And if that erer ye shall be a wife, 
Forget not Palamon, the gentle man. 

His speech here began to cease, — 

Dusked his eyen two, and fail'd his breath. 

Most honourable were the burial rites aud ceremonies 
prepared by Theseus. The funeral pile was erected in 
the grove where the lovers had privately met and 
combated, and where the lists had been afterwards 
formed. But how the pile was raised to a great height, 
and what are the names of the trees of every kind that 
were used, or how they were felled, shall not be told 
by rne ; 

Ne how the Goddes rannen up and down 

Disherited of their habitat ioun, 

In which they wonnedenf in rest and peace, 

Nymphes, FaUties, and HamadrUdes; 

Ne how the beastes and the birdes all 

Fledden for feare, when the wood 'gan fall ; 

Ne how the ground aghast was of the light, 

That was not wont to see the sunne bright ; 

Ne how the fire was couched first with stre,J 

And then with drie stickes cloven a-three, 

And then with greene wood and spicery, 

And then with cloth of gold, and with pierrie,§ 

And garlands hanging with full many a flower, 

The myrrh, th' incense also witli sweet od6ur ; 

Ne how Arcita lay among all this, 

Ne what richess about his body is; 

Ne how that Emily, as was the guise, 

Put in the fire of funeral service ; 

Ne how she swooned when she made the fire, 

Ne what she spake, ne what was her desire : 

Ne what jeweiles men in the fire cast, 

When that the fire was great and brente fast ; 

Ne how some cast their shield and some their spear, 

And of their vestimeutes which they ware,|l 

And cuppes full of wine, and milk, and blood, 

Into the nre, that burnt as it were wood ;^f 

Ne how the G re ekes with a huge rout, 

Three times riden all the fire about, 

Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting, 

And thries with their speares clattering, 

And thries how the ladies 'gan to cry ; 

Ne how that led was homeward Emily ; 

Ne how Arcite is burnt to ashes cold ; ^ 

but, briefly, I will conclude my tale. 
After years had passed, there was a parliament held at 



Athens, in which among other points, matters of alliance 
between certain countries were debated. Theseus sent 
for Palamon, who not knowing the cause of his being sent 
for, came, still habited in his mourning. Theseus alsc 
sent for Emily. And when all were seated, the Duke 
addressed the assemblage : showing that all things are 
ordained above, that it is true wisdom to make a virtue 
of necessity, that it was a matter of deep congratula- 
tion, since Arcite was to die prematurely, that he 
had died in the very flower of his youth and repu- 
tation. 

Sister, quod be, this is my full assent, 

With all the advice here of my parliament, 

That gentle Palamon, your owen knight, 

That serveth you with will, and heart, and might, 

And ever hath done, since ye first him knew, 

That ye shall of your grace upon him rue, 

And taken him for husband and for lord. 

Turning to Palamon, Theseus said— 

I trow, there needeth little sermouing, 
To maken your assenten to this thing ; 
Come near, and take your lady by the baud. 

The lovers were married at last ; 

And God, that all this wide* world hath wrought, 

Sent him his love that hath it dear y bought. 

For now is Palamon in alle weal, 

Living in bliss, in riches, and in heal ;* 

And Emily him loveth so tenderly, 

And he her serveth all so gentilly. 

That never was there no worde them between. 

* Health. 



* Work. 
% Straw. 
|| Wore. 



f Were accustomed to dwell, 
j Precious stones. 
1 Mad. 



[Death of Arcite 



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Norman historians, who seem to have had his diaries 
and note-hooks in their hands, chose Alfred as the glory 
of the land which had become their own. There is 
no subject in which unanimous tradition is so nearly 
sufficient evidence, as on the eminence of one man over 
others of the same condition. His bright image may 
long be held up before the national mind. This tra- 
dition, however paradoxical the assertion may appear, 
is, in the case of Alfred, rather supported than weak- 
ened by the fictions which have sprung from it. Al- 
though it be an infirmity of every nation to ascribe 
their institutions to the contrivance of a man rather 
than to the slow action of time and circumstances, yet 
the selection of Alfred by the English people, as the 
founder of all that was dear to them, is surely the 
strongest proof of the deep impression left on the minds 
of all of his transcendant wisdom and virtue.'** 

This darling of England (Alfred had a much better 
claim to the title than that obscure prince Edgar 
Athcling, who afterwards bore i\) was of the most 
ancient and illustrious lineage: his father Ethel wu If 
traced his descent from the most ancient and most 
renowned of Saxon heroes, and his mother Osburga 
descended from renowned Gothic progenitors. He 
was born at the royal manor of Vanathine (now Wan- 
tage) in Berkshire, in the year 849. Of four legiti- 
mate sons, Alfred was the youngest ; yet in 853, when 
King Ethel wulf repaired to Rome, partly as a pilgrim 
to that holy city and partly to take counsel of the pope, 
and carried Alfred with him, Leo IV., who then wore 
the tiara or triple crown, consecrated the boy as king. 
This conferring of royal inaugural honours upon achild 
in the fifth year of his age, and the youngest of his 
family, has often been made matter of wonderment. 
The fact is, however, most distinctly stated both by 
Asser and by the famous and authentic old chronicle 
called the Saxon Chronicle. But at this time the 
seven states which had formed the Heptarchy were 
not thoroughly fused and amalgamated into the one 
great and undividable kingdom of England ;and Ethel- 
wulf, who allowed one of his sons to reign in Wessex 
during his own life, may have contemplated, as other 
Saxon sovereigns did even at a later period, a re- 
division of the kingdom, and may have been eager 
to secure one of the crowns for Alfred, his darling boy, 
and the fairest and most promising of his sons. More- 
over, immense importance was attached to a consecra- 
tion or inauguration at the hands of the pope (a pope- 
made king being held by many degrees better than a 
king who bad only been anointed and crowned by a 
bishop), and as a journey from England to Rome was 
a rare occurrence, and was attended with much fatigue, 
danger, trouble and expense, Ethel wulf may naturally 
have felt anxious to procure for his favourite son ail 
the advantages of such a journey, while he was in the 
M eternal city." It is also to be borne in mind that the 
right of primogeniture was not yet recognised or firmly 
established, and that even for some centuries after the 
time of Alfred it was not unusual to set aside elder 
brothers in order to place upon the throne a younger 
bi other who was of a more promising disposition or 
who happened to enjoy more favour with the nation. 
In any case the pope's consecration would prove bene- 
ficial to Alfred. His elder brothers, who successively 
ascended and descended the throne with great rapidity, 
soon left it vacant to him by their deaths, and it has 
been thought by some writers that, even during their 
life-time, Alfred was acknowledged as king in one part 
of the island. 

It is not known how long Alfred remained at Rome, 
but it has been reasonably conjectured that, young as 
he was, he derived from his own observation some ad- 
vantages from his sojourn in what was still the greatest 
* Hist, of England, chap. xi. 



and most civilized city in Europe. His father could 
not have failed of deriving improvement from the visit, 
and from his residence in various other cities in Italy 
and in France, for in both those countries there was 
then much more civilization than in England, and 
what was learned by the affectionate father could hardly 
have failed of being communicated at a later date to 
the intelligent and inquiring son. 

The earliest story related of Alfred treats of his apti- 
tude for learning and his love of poetry and books. 
He learned to read before his elder brothers, and before 
he could read he had learned by heart a great many 
Anglo-Saxon poems by hearing the minstrels and glee- 
men recite them in his father's hall. This passionate 
love of letters never forsook him, and he owes more 
fame to his pen than to his sword. In the year 871, 
when Alfred was in the twenty-second year of his age, 
Ethelred, the last of his kingly brothers, died of wounds 
received in battle with the Danish invaders, and the 
voice of the nobles and people immediately designated 
him as successor to the crown of all England. Alfred had 
already fought on many fields and had given proofs of 
political ability and wisdom, but it was with reluctance 
that he shut up his books and took up the sceptre. 
At this point his exciting and well-recorded adventures 
commence. 

For many years the hero has to fight for territory 
and for life against the formidable Danes, who, having 
conquered a large portion of the kingdom in the 
time of his brothers and predecessors, continued to 
receive every spring and summer fresh forces from 
the Baltic. He has scarcely been a month upon the 
throne ere he fights the great battle of Wilton. In 
the next year he fits out a small fleet of ships, a 
species of force which the Saxons had entirely neg- 
lected, and forms the embryo of the naval glory of 
England. And, more than any single man or prince, 
Alfred is entitled to the name of the Father of the 
English Navy. His enemies, however, are too numer- 
ous to be resisted, and too faithless and cruel to be 
trusted ; and after fighting many battles, he is obliged 
to retire to an inland island called A the In ey, or the 
Prince's Island, near the confluence of the rivers 
Thone and Parret. It is Asser who tells the story that 
is known to all of us, and endeared to us all by our ear- 
liest recollections. In one of his excursions from Athel- 
ney Alfred takes refuge in the cabin of a swineherd, 
and tarries there some time. On a certain day it hap- 
pens that the wife of the swain prepares to bake her 
loudas, or loaves of bread. Alfred chances at the time 
to be sitting near the hearth, but he is busied in think- 
ing of war and in making ready bows and arrows. 
The shrew soon beholds her loaves burning, and runs 
to remove them, scolding the stranger. " You man," 
saith she, " you will not turn the bread you see burn- 
ing, but you will be glad enough to eatit."* "This 
unlucky woman," adds Asser, M little thought she was 
talking to King Alfred, who had warred against the 
Pagans and gained so many victories over them.* 

Passing over sundry miracles, and marvels, and 
legendary tales, not told by Asser, but invented by the 
monks some ages after, to explain the present destitu- 
tion, and the great benevolence, generosity, and devo- 
tion of the fugitive king, we next come to Alfred's 
impersonation of the wandering minstrel or gleeman. 

Some of his friends have gathered armies together, 

* The old Welsh monk, in describing this sceue, has recourse 
to verse, as if plain prose could not do justice to it. The house- 
wife runs and cries : — 

Heus homo : 
Urere quos cernis panes gyrare moraris, 
Cum niraium gaudes hos manducare calentes? 

Annate Rerun Gestarum Mlfrtdi Magni. &c, as edited by 
F.Wise, A.M., Oxford, 1722. 



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and have obtained successes over the enemy in various 
parts; Alfred himself has raised a small band into a 
formidable force, and he has good reason to believe 
that the Danes are becoming incautious and negligent 
Putting on the gleeman's dress, and carrying instru- 
ments of music in his hand, he gains a ready entrance 
into the Danish camp; and as he amuses these idle 
warriors with songs and interludes, he espies all their 
sloth and negligence, and hears much of their counsels 
and plans. 1 he Danes love his company and his songs 
so much, that they are loth to let him depart; but he is 
soon enabled to return to his friends at Athelncy with 
a full account of the state and habits of this army ; and 
secret and swift messengers are sent to all quarters to 
request all true Saxons to meet in arms by a given 
time, at Egbert's stone, on the east of Selwood Forest. 
The true Saxons meet, and fight, and defeat the Danes 
in the great battle of Ethandune, on the banks of the 
river Avon. And now follows the touching picture of 
the conversion and baptism of Guthrun the Dane with 
King Alfred standing by him at the baptismal font as 
his sponsor. 

It was about this time that Alfred, who had solaced 
his misfortunes during his retirement in Athelney by 
frequently reading in a book, sent into Wales to invite 
Asser to his court or camp, in order that he might 

Jirofit by the instructive conversation of the most 
earned man then in the island of Britain. The monk 
of St. David's obeyed the summons, and, as he himself 
tells us, was introduced to the king at Dene in Wilt- 
shire, by the thanes who had been sent to fetch him. 
This meeting of the monk and king, which was attend- 
ed with most important consequences, and with ines- 
timable benefits to Alfred and to the people over whom 
he ruled, is a picture history which ought not to be 
omitted in our Valhalla. A familiar friendly inter- 
course followed a most courteous reception, and then 
the king invited the monk to live constantly with him. 
The vows of Asser and his attachment to the monastery 
of St. David's interfered with this arrangement ; but it 
was finally agreed that he should pass part of his time in 
his monastery and the rest of the year at court. When 
Asser returned to Alfred, he remained eight months con- 
stantly with him, conversing with him, and reading with 
him all such books as the king possessed. Few were 
these books in number— scarce and more precious than 
the most costly jewels, nor were there many contempo- 
rary sovereigns much better provided than the king of 
England. But efforts were made to obtain more books 
on the Continent, and to collect such as had escaped 
the destructive fires kindled by the Danes, and were 
scattered about the country, and to procure scribes 
learned enough to copy manuscripts, and so multiply 
the books. Alfred's gratitude to Asser knew no bounds. 
At first he gave the learned monk an abbey in Wilt- 
shire, and another abbey at Banwell in Somersetshire, 
and a rich silk pall, and as much incense as a strong 
man could carry on his shoulders, assuring him that he 
considered these as small things for a man of so much 
merit, and that hereafter he should have greater. 
Asser was subsequently promoted to the bishopric of 
Sherburn, and thenceforward remained constantly with 
the king, enjoying his entire confidence and affection, 
and sharing in all his ioys and sorrows. 

The converted Guthrun kept his contract, but other 
hosts of pagan Danes came from beyond the sea. 
After six years of warfare, with several battles fought 
in each year, Alfred was enabled to rebuild and fortify 
the city of London, which the Danes had burned. His 
infant Navy gained divers victories; and when a 
Danish host sailed up the JVfedway and laid siege to 
Rochester, Alfreg witn a land force fell suddenly upon 
them, and drove them back to their ships. But in the 



course of six or seven* years Hasting, the greatest and 
ablest of all the Danish warriors and sea-kings, came 
over to England with a vaster and more desperate army 
than had ever been seen before ; and a new war was 
commenced, which was prosecuted successively in 
nearly every corner of England, and which lasted with 
scarcely any intermission for four years. The com- 
bats were many, and King Alfred was personally 
present in most of them. Great was the aid he re 
ceived from the restored citizens of London, whose 
gratitude and affection knew no bounds. These gene- 
rous citizens not only furnished him with money and 
provisions, but they also put on warlike harness and 
went out, young and old, and fought under him. The 
valley of the Lea, from its mouth on the Thames near 
London up to Ware and Hertford and the country 
above Hertford, was the scene of many remarkable 
exploits in war, in which the Londoners had a very 
distinguished part. The pleasant river Lea— Izaak 
Walton's own stream, and a stream which ought to be 
dear to every Londoner — was very different a thousand 
years ago from what it now is. It was both broader 
and deeper, being filled by a far greater volume of 
water from the then undramed country. Nor did the 
Danish ships of war draw so much water as a modern 
trading sloop. Thus Hasting was enabled to carry his 
great fleet of ships up the river as far as Ware, or, as 
some think, Hertford, where he established one of his 
fortified camps, in the construction of which this great 
Danish commander displayed extraordinary skill. On 
the approach of summer, the burgesses of London, 
with many of their neighbours, who saw that their 
ripening corn was exposed to be reaped by a Danish 
sickle, attacked Hasting in this stronghold, but were 
repulsed with great loss. But presently Alfred, march- 
ing from a distant part of the country, came and 
encamped his army round about the city of London, 
and stayed there until the citizens and their neighbours 
got in their harvests. He then marched away to the 
Lea, which seemed covered by the enemy's ships, 
and at great personal risk surveyed with his own eyes 
this new fortified camp of the Danes. His active in- 
genious mind presently conceived a plan which was 
much safer and surer than any assault that could be 
made upon those formidable works. Bringing up his 
forces, and calling upon the brave and alert Londoners 
for assistance, he raised two fortresses, one on either 
side the Lea, a little below the Danish camp, and then 
dug three deep canals or channels from the Lea to the 
Thames, in order to lower the level of the tributary 
stream. So much water was thus drawn off, that the 
whole fleet of Hasting was left aground and rendered 
useless. Upon this the terrible sea-king broke from 
his intrenchmenU by night, and hardly rested till he 
had traversed the whole of that wide tract of country 
which lies between the river Lea and the Severn. 
While King Alfred followed Hasting, the Londoners 
fell upon the Danish ships and galleys, and some they 
broke to pieces, and some tjiey got afloat again, and 
carried round in triumph, and with Saxon horns and 
other music, to the city of London. At Quatbridge, 
on the Severn (the place is now called Quatford ; and 
it lies not far from Bridge north in Shropshire), Alfred 
found the Danish host in another camp, which they had 
already strongly fortified. The Saxon king was com- 
pelled to respect the intrenchments at Quatbridge, and 
to leave the Danes there undisturbed all through the 
winter ; but he established so good a blockade that the 
Danes could not plunder the country or often issue 
from their works, and at the approach of spring hunger 
drove them all out of England ; and Hasting, aiter 
escaping with difficulty from the sword of Alfred, 
crossed the channel sine lucro et sine honore — without 

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profit or honour, as old Asser Bays. The sea-king 
ascended the river Seine, obtained some settlement in 
France, and never more troubled King Alfred. This 
was the last great campaign of our Saxon hero. 

Alfred, who had much mechanical skill, and who 
thought it no unkingly occupation to wield the ship- 
carpenter's tools, now applied himself more vigorously 
than ever to the creation of a national Navy. For a 
long time he went daily to the ship-yard, with his 
crown of gold on his head and his good steel adze in 
his hand. And so let him be figured in our Valhalla, 
working in the midst of our first shipwrights. He 
caused vessels to be built far exceeding those of his 
enemies in length of keel, height of board, swiftness, 
and steadiness ; some of these carried sixty oars or 
sweepers, to be used, as in the ancient Roman galleys, 
when the wind failed ; and others carried even more 
than sixty. They were all constructed after a plan of 
Alfred's own invention, and they were soon found to 
be peculiarly well adapted to the service for which 
they were intended. Before the close of his reign the 
flag of Alfred floated over more than a hundred ves- 
sels of this sort. This truly royal fleet— the first that 
England ever had, and as such entitled to our venera- 
tion — was divided into squadrons, some of which were 
stationed at different ports round the island, while 
some were kept constantly cruising between our island 
and the Continent and the outlet from the Baltic Sea. 
The flag of England was already a meteor flag, and no 
ship of any other nation met it at sea without paying 
honour to it. 

Alfred, who had learned the importance of fortifica- 
tions during his wars with the Danes, and especially 
in his long contest with Hasting, who was a great 
master in the art of castrametation, and the art of 
choosing and fortifying positions, erected defensive 
works round all the towns he rebuilt, and taught the 
people how to keep them in constant repair. He 
caused a survey to be made of the coast and navigable 
rivers, and ordered castles to be erected at those 
places which were most accessible to the landing of 
the enemy. Fifty strong towers and castles rose in 
different parts of the country ; and the number would 
have been threefold if the king had not been thwarted 
by the indolence, ignorance, and carelessness of the 
nobles and freemen. 

The Danes and Norwegians, with whom Alfred had 
to contend, were the most accomplished warriors of 
the age. The appellation of the Scandinavian Hanni- 
bal has been conferred on Hasting, and his extraor- 
dinary campaigns in England will justify the title, 
even without looking to nis exploits in France and 
other countries. The skill, the untiring perseverance, 
the indomitable courage, the consummate prudence 
which Alfred displayed in his long contest with the 
greatest of the sea-kings, and the complete triumph he 
obtained over him in the end, must assuredly give him 
rank among the greatest military commanders of that 
age. Yet was he even greater in peace than in war. 
In every interval of repose allowed him by the furious 
invaders, he gave himself up to study ana contempla- 
tion, and occupied his mind by devising the means of 
improving the moral as well as the physical condition 
of the people, and of advancing their civilization by 
books and schools, and a better administration of the 
laws. When he rebuilt London he gave to it many 
admirable civil institutions and laws, and appointed 
the ealdorman Ethered to be its governor. He 
rebuilt Winchester and many other cities, and instead 
of wood, the only material which had been used before 
his time, he introduced the use of stone and bricks, 
and taught his people to build houses like those he 
had seen at Rome and Milan. And wherever he re- 



edified a town he gave the people rules for reconr 
structing and improving their municipal institutions, 
and trained them to that system of self-government 
which has since become the pride and strength of 
England, and without which there can be no lasting 
liberty in any country. There had been codes of law 
in England long before the days of Alfred, and 
some of these, though rudely simple, bad a fine free 
spirit about them. Ethel bert, King of Kent; Ina, 
King of Wessex; Offa, King of Mercia, and other 
Anglo-Saxon sovereigns, had been legislators, and 
had promulgated their several codes or Dooms : but all 
law and order had well nigh perished during the 
devastations, the horror, the anarchy, and the break- 
ing up of society occasioned by the Danish invasions ; 
and tne memory of them, together with all instruction 
and enlightenment, seemed to be wearing out in the 
popular mind. Alfred collected the codes and dooms 
of his predecessors, and apparently without adding 
much of his own, and without introducing any new 
matter whatsoever, he compiled a very intelligible and 
consistent code, and submitted it to tne Witenagemot, 
or parliament, or great council, for their sanction. He 
tells us himself that he was afraid to innovate, and 
that he thought it better to permit a continuance of a 
defective law than to destroy that respect for esta- 
blished authority which is the foundation upon which 
all laws must rest. Plain and simple laws might do 
for a simple state of society, if they were only properly 
and impartially administered ; and it was rather to 
this proper administration, than to the construction of 
any new theory, that Alfred directed his attention. In 
practice the judges had become shamefully corrupt. 
According to an ancient London tradition, Alfred 
caused forty-four judges, who had given false judg- 
ments, to he hanged in one year as men guilty of 
murder. This fact is not supported by any contem- 
porary or good authority ; but Asser mentions that he 
exercised great vigilance over the judges, frequently 
reprimanding those who did amiss, and threatening 
them with deprivation and other punishments. We have 
the same good authority for the facts that the courts 
became pure ; that the laws, such as they were, were 
fairly administered ; and that town-people and villagers 
kept such good police that robbery and theft became 
almost unknown; Towards the dose of his reign it 
was generally asserted, that one might have strewed 
golden bracelets and jewels on the public highways 
and cross-roads, and no man would have dared to touch 
them for fear of the law. 

Alfred, who felt that if the divine law were duly 
observed there would be no necessity for human legis- 
lation, opened his code of laws with the ten command- 
ments, a selection from the Mosaic precepts, and the 
canons of the First Apostolic Councils. " Do these," he 
said, " and no other doom-book will be needed." 

But if Alfred did not introduce many new laws, he 
rejected some of the old ones. For this we have his 
own word. He says in his doom-book, " I then, Alfred, 
King, gathered these laws together, and commanded 
many of those to be written which our forefathers held, 
those which to me seemed good ; and many of those 
which seemed to me not good, I rejected them, by the 
counsel of my Witan, and in otherwise commanded 
them to be holden ; for I durst not venture to set down 
in writing much of my own, for it was unknown to 
me what of it would please those who should come 
after us. But those things which I met with, either 
of the days of Ina, my kinsman, or Offa, King of the 
Mercians, or of Ethel bert, who first among the Eng- 
lish race received baptism, those which seemed to me 
the rightest, those I have here gathered together and 
rejected the others. I then, Alfred, King of the WesV- 



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Saxons, showed these to all my Witan, and they then 
said that it seemed good to them all to be h olden."* 
This simple, primitive passage, beautiful in itself, may 
be suggestive of a fine picture. 

It was Alfred's grand object to consolidate the do- 
minions of England, to make one consistent and in- 
separable whole of the various states into which it had 
been divided by the Saxon conquerors (states which 
were still separated by old jealousies and antipathies), 
to regenerate the whole Anglo-Saxon people, and to 
create a new national spirit ; and as he effected this 
not ostentatiously, but by unwearied political activity, 
he was in reality the King, the Liberator, the Reformer 
of all England. He, however, contented himself with 
being called King of the West-Saxons, and wisely 
avoided provoking disputes and awakening the old 
jealousies by assuming a loftier title. He was not 
only the first warrior, tne first statesman and legislator, 
but he was also the first scholar in his dominions. The 
good monk Asser appears, with all kindness of heart 
and great affection for the king, to have been some- 
what of a pedant, and to have regarded the progress 
made by his pupil with a feeling nearly approaching 
to jealousy, although he himself was probably uncon- 
scious of it. But even from Asser's interesting me- 
moirs the fact may easily be gathered that Alfred 
vastly exceeded even the most learned of his prelates 
in scholarlike accomplishments. It is Asser that tells 
us that in his boyhood his love of Anglo-Saxon poetry 
was so great that he would listen to tne minstrels day 
and night. The monk says that he " remained illiterate 
till his twelfth year or longer." But it is conjectured 
that Asser here used the term t/literatus in a very re- 
stricted sense, meaning to say no more than that Alfred 
had not yet learned Latin. As a Welshman, Asser 
would make no account of Saxon literature, and as a 
priest, he would hold up the Latin language as the 
only orthodox vehicle of knowledge, f He states that 
the king's noble mind thirsted for knowledge from the 
very cradle, and that when a mere child he had got 
many of the Anglo-Saxon poems by heart. It appears 
highly probable that Alfred diligently studied the lan- 
guage between his twelfth and eighteenth year ; that 
he had a few Latin books with him in his solitude at 
Athelney, and that he was (for that time) a good Latin 
scholar before he invited Asser to his court But 
whenever or however he obtained his knowledge of 
that learned tongue, he certainly showed in his literary 
works a proficiency in Latin which was almost mira- 
culous for a prince in Alfred's age. The style of his 
works in his native language proves that his acquaint- 
ance with a few good classical models was familiar, 
and extended to higher things than mere words and 
phrases — proves that he had imbibed some of the 
spirit of the imperishable writers of ancient Rome. 
After teaching himself by reading and translating, he 
was probably greatly improved in his mature manhood, 
when, besides the monk Asser, Johannes £rigena, 
Grimbald, and other learned men settled at his court 
and lived at his table. This Johannes Erigena, other- 
wise called Johannes Scotus, was a native of Ireland, 
and a very extraordinary personage : he had travelled 
much, in Asia as well as in Europe ; he had visited 
Athens, and had resided many years in Asia Minor ; 
he had learned the Greek, the Hebrew, the Syrian, the 
Chaldee, and the Arabic languages, and he was deep 
in all the philosophy of the age. 

* Ancient Laws and Institutes of England, with an English 
translation of the Saxon. Printed by command of his Majesty 
King William IV., under the direction of toe Commissioners on 
the Public Records of the Kingdom. 

f Fenny CyolopsKUa, Biography of Alfred. 



Alfred was accustomed to say that he regretted the 
imperfect education of his youth, the entire want of 

E roper teachers, and the many difficulties which then 
arred his progress to intellectual improvement, much 
more than all the hardship and sorrows and misfortunes 
that befell him afterwards. As one of his greatest im- 
pediments had been the difficult Latin language, he 
earnestly recommended from the throne, in a circular 
letter addressed to the bishops, that thenceforward " all 
good and useful books be translated into the language 
which we all understand; so that all the youths of 
England, but more especially such as are of gentle 
kind and in easy circumstances, may be grounded in 
letters — for they cannot profit in any pursuit until they 
be well able to read English." His mind was too lofty 
for pedantry to reach it, and too liberal and expansive 
to entertain the idea that learning ought to be kept in 
a foreign disguise and out of the reach of the people. 
He looked to the intellectual improvement of the 
people and their religious instruction as to the only solid 
foundation upon which a government could repose or 
a throne be established. It was left to a later age to 
advance the monstrous principle that the bulk of man- 
kind can be governed only by the suppression or de- 
basement of their intellectual faculties, and that 
governments and all the institutions of civil life are 
est supported by the ignorance of the greatest part 
of those who live under them. The doctrine of this 
enlightened English king of the ninth century was — 
let there be churches, abbeys, schools, books ; let the 
churches be served by active and conscientious priests ; 
let the abbeys be filled by the most learned men that 
can be found ; let the schools be taught by able mas- 
ters ; and let the books be in the language which is 
spoken by all the people. And the theory was carried 
into practice to an extent which is surprising for those 
times. He never rebuilt a town without furnishing it 
with a good capacious school ; he founded or restored 
churches and monasteries at Athelney, Shaftesbury, 
Winchester, and many other places, in some of which 
the people had almost relapsed into heathenism ; he 
sent into various countries in search of learned and 
industrious teachers; and in order that there might 
be books for the people to read, he wrote many him- 
self. Even as an author, no native of England of the 
old Saxon period, except the venerable Bede, can be 
compared to Alfred either for the number or for the 
excellence of his writings. These works were in good 
part translations from the Latin into Anglo-Saxon. 
He thus translated for the instruction of his subjects — 
1, Orosius's History, six books ; 2, St. Gregory's 
Pastorale ; 3, St. Gregory's Dialogues ; 4, Bede's His- 
tory, five books ; Boetius, on the Consolation of Philo- 
sophy ; 6, The Merchen-Lage (Laws of the Mercians) ; 
7, Asser's Sentences ; 8, The Psalms of David. His 
original works— all in the same plain-spoken language 
of the people, were — 1, An Abridgment of the Laws 
of the Trojans, the Greeks, the Britons, the Saxons, 
and the Danes ; 2, Laws of the West-Saxons ; 3, Insti- 
tutes; 4, A Book against Unjust Judges; 5, Sayings 
of the Wise ; 6, A Book on the Fortunes of Kings; 
7, Parables and Jokesj 8, Acts of Magistrates ; 9, Col- 
lection of Chronicles ; 10, Manual of Meditations. 4 

He was an elegant poet, and wrote a great many 
Anglo-Saxon poems and ballads, which were sung; or 
recited in all parts of England, but of which we believe 
no trace has been preserved, though we have a few 
verses of a still more ancient date. In his original works 
the extent of his knowledge is not less astonishing 
than the purity of his taste : the diction is classically 
easy and simple, yet not deficient either in strength oj 

* Spslmao, iEhreui Magoi Vita. 



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in ornament. Asser tells us that his first attempt at 
translation was made upon the Bible, a book whicn no 
man ever held in greater reverence than King Alfred. 
In describing this commencement of his literary la- 
bours, the monk of St. David's presents us with an- 
other picture. He and the king were^ engaged in 
pleasant conversation ; and it so chanced that Asser 
quoted a passage from the Bible with which the king 
was much struck. Alfred requested his friend to 
write the passage in a collection of Psalms and Hymns 
which he nad had with him at Athelney and which he 
always carried in his bosom ; but not a blank leaf 
could be found in that book. At the monk's sug- 
gestion the king called for a clean skin of parchment, 
and this being folded into fours, in the shape of a little 
book, the passage from the Scriptures was written 
upon it in Latin, together with other good texts : 
and the king setting to work upon these passages, 
translated them into the Anglo-Saxon tongue. 

Bishop Alfric, reputed the best philologist of his 
age, undertook a new version of the Pentateuch, and 
of some of the apocryphal books ; and in his preface 
he refuted certain objections which had already been 
raised against similar labours, or against the practice 
of giving the Scriptures to the common people in a 
language they could understand. " The rubrics pre- 
fixed to the lessons of the Anglo-Saxon version of the 
Gospels," says Sir Francis Palgrave, " leave no reason 
to doubt but that they were regularly read in the 
churches on Sundays and festivals. Large portions of 
the Scripture were also reproduced in the Anglo- 
Saxon homilies or sermons, and the study of the Holy 
Scriptures was most earnestly recommended both to 
clergy and laity, as the groundwork of their faith. 
... ... From the Anglo-Saxon age, down to 

Wicliffe, we in England can show such a succession of 
Biblical versions, in metre and in prose, as are not to be 
equalled amongst any other nation in Europe."* 

From this time Alfred continued the practice of 
writing down remarkable passages, and translating 
them into his own language. It has been said that he 
intended to make a complete translation of the Bible, 
and that be even completed the greater part of that 
immense undertaking. The latter fact seems very 
doubtful; but it cannot be doubted that an impulse 
was given by Alfred to others, and that translations of 
great part of the Scriptures were multiplied after his 
death. 

Nothing is more astonishing in the story of this 
marvellous maaihan how he could find time for these 
laudable literary occupations ; but he was steady and 
persevering in all things, regular in his habits, when 
not kept in the field by the Danes, and a rigid econo- 
mist of his time. Eight hours of each day he gave to 
sleep, to his meals, and exercise ; eight were absorbed 
by the affairs of government ; and eight were devoted 
to study and devotion. Clocks, clepsydras, and other 
ingenious instruments for measuring time, were then 
unknown in England. Alfred was no doubt acquainted 
with the sundial, which was in common use in Italy ; 
but this index is of no use in the hours of the night, 
and would frequently be equally unserviceable during 
our foggy sunless days. He thefefore marked his time 
by the constant burning of wax torches or candles, 
which were made precisely of the same weight and 
size, and notched in the stem at regular distances. 
These candles were twelve inches long; six of them, 
or seventy-two inches of wax, were consumed in twenty- 
four hours, or fourteen hundred and forty minutes ; 
and thus, supposing the notches at intervals of an inch, 
one such notch would mark the lapse of twenty minutes, 

♦ ' HUt of England -.—Anglo-Saxon Period. 



and three such notches the lapse of an hour. These 
time-candles were placed under the special charge of 
the king's mass-priests or chaplains. But it was soon 
discovered that sometimes the wind, rushing in through 
the windows and doors, and the numerous chinks in 
the walls of the royal palace, caused the wax to be 
consumed in a rapid and irregular manner. This 
induced Alfred to invent that primitive utensil the 
horn lanthorn ; which now-a-days is never seen except 
in the stable-yard of some lowly country inn, and not 
often even there. Asser telh us that the king went 
skilfully and wisely to work ; and having found out 
that unite horn could be rendered transparent like 
glass, he with that material, and with pieces of wood, 
admirably (mirabiliter) made a case for his candle, 
which kept it from wasting and flaring. And therefore, 
say we, let none ever look upon an ostler's horn 
lanthorn, however poor and battered it may be, and 
however dim the light that shines within it, without 
thinking of Alfred the Great. 

In his youth he was much addicted to field sports, 
and a perfect master of hunting and the then newly 
introduced art of hawking; but in after life he be- 
grudged the time which these exciting amusements 
demanded. 

No prince of his time made such strenuous efforts 
in favour of education and the diffusion of know- 
ledge among his people. Charlemagne acted upon a 
much vaster stage ; but in this, as in several other 
respects, he was left far behind by our Alfred. Since 
the days of the venerable Bede the civilization of the 
country had sadly retrograded : the Danes, by directing 
their chief fury against the churches, abbeys, and 
monasteries, had destroyed the most learned of the 
Anglo-Saxon priests and monks — had burned their 
little libraries, and scared literature away from its only 
haunt 8. The schools had disappeared, there being at 
this period no schools or libraries in the country, except 
such as belonged to the monastic establishments. 

Alfred's own account of the state in which he found 
the kingdom in this respect at his accession to the 
throne is most interesting; and his feeling of his own 
merits in effecting; a change for the better is expressed 
with all the modesty of a truly great mind. In the 
circular letter which he prefixed to his translation of 
St Gregory's ' Pastorale, he says—" Knowledge had 
fallen into such total decay among the English, that 
there were very few on the other side of the H umber 
who understood the common prayers, so as to be able 
to tell their meaning in English, or who could have 
translated into that language a Latin passage ; and I 
ween there were not many on this side of H umber who 
could do it. Indeed there were so few such, that I do 
not even recollect one to the south of the Thames, at 
the time I succeeded to the crown. God Almighty be 
thanked, there are now some holding bishoprics who 
are capable of teaching." 

We have seen with what anxiety he sought for 
learned men, and with what liberality he rewarded 
their services which he felt to be above all price. 
In the midst of the surrounding barbarity of Western 
Europe, his court shined out like an Academe. Many 
of these eminent scholars were invited from foreign 
countries, where their merits were less regarded. 
He corresponded very frequently with the learned 
Fulco, Bishop of Rheiras, who acted as his agent in 
seeking out and engaging good teachers. An epistle, 
in Latin, has been preserved, which Bishop Fulco 
addressed to " the most glorious and most Christian 
King of the English, Alfred." The bishop praises 
the king's great learning, love of justice and peace, 
devotion, and charity; and especially applauds his 
successful efforts, his diligence and industry, in re- 



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moving the ignorance into which his subjects had 
fallen through the irruptions of the Pagans and the 
carelessness of the Saxon prelates. Dumb dogs, he 
says, cannot bark — Canes muti, non valentes latrare ; 
but he has sent the king a learned priest and monk, 
Grimbald by name (though he grieves at parting with 
him), who is admirably qualified to teach and preach, 
and aid Alfred in the great work he has in hand.* 
Asser describes Grimbald as being a venerable man, 
in excellent singer — cantator optimvs — versed in every 
kind of ecclesiastical discipline ; most erudite in the 
holy Scriptures, and of all good morals the ornament 
— tn divtna Scriptura eruditissimum, et omnibus bonis 
moribus ornamentvm. 

The national gratitude and admiration, which am- 
plified the traditions relating to him, made Alfred the 
first founder of the University of Oxford. His claim to 
this honour seems to be exceedingly doubtful ; but if 
there was no university (properly so called), there was 
certainly a monastic school at Oxford prior to the birth 
of Alfred, and if he did not convert it into a university, 
it is equally certain that he did much for its improve- 
ment : he provided the school with better teachers ; and 
when differences arose among them, he went thither in 
person, in order toYe-establish harmony and discipline. 
His own large mind was ever open to instruction on 
any subject. The science of geography was then in a 
most imperfect, mutilated state. The works of the 
Greek and Roman geographers (themselves very defec- 
tive) were unknown in England, and very little known 
in any part of Western Europe. The dark ages had 
furnished nothing to supply their place. But barbarous 
invention hid disfigured this fair world by promul- 
gating the most absurd fables about distant countries 
and the men who inhabited them. Johannes Scotus, 
as we have seen, had been a great traveller before he 
came to Alfred's court to impart the varied knowledge 
of which he was master. Other travelled men preceded 
or followed him; and it was evidently one of the 
greatest delights of the king's life to converse with 
these men about the distant lands in which they had 
been, and the still remoter parts of the earth of which 
they had obtained some information by reading books 
in other languages, or by hearsay. One of these ad- 
venturous men was Audher, or Othere, who had 
coasted the continent of Europe towards the North 
Pole, from the Baltic to the North Cape, with the view 
of ascertaining how far that continent extended ; and 
who, in his skiff, had run along all the northern coast 
of Lapland, and had ventured to the shores occupied by 
the wild men of Finland. Another of these travellers 
was Wulstan, apparently a born subject of the king, 
who undertook a voyage all round the Baltic, and who 
succeeded in gathering many particulars concerning 
the divers countries situated on that sea. Others 
among these bold men who either had been sent out 
expressly by Alfred, or had been brought by him into 
England on account of the journeys they had previ- 
ously made, had visited Germany, Bulgaria, Sclavonia, 
and Bohemia. All the information about foreign parts 
that Alfred obtained from these, his rough but ho- 
noured guests, he committed to writing in the plain 
mother tongue, and with the noble design of imparting 
it to bis people ; and in enlarging the text of Orosius, 
the Spanish chronicler, whose work he translated, he 
introduced a geographical account of Germany, and 
the voyages of Audher towards the North Pole and of 
WuLstan in the Baltic ; this new, and for the time 
most valuable matter, being the cream of his conver- 
sations with his travelled guests. We have here an- 

* Wise published this letter from the original MS. then in the 
' i of T. Ford, Vicar of Banwell, Somersetshire. 



other picture in our mind's eye. The king is sestod 
in the royal hall with these rough and weather-beaten 
men ; there is a table with rudely drawn maps and 
charts upon it ; and there is eager curiosity in the 
countenance of the king ; and there are various and 
strong expressions in the faces of the voyagers and 
travellers, who are relating all that they have seen, 
and all the perils they have undergone. It is the sit- 
ting of the first Geographical Society in England. 

Having obtained information — probably from Jo- 
hannes Scotus, who had been in the East— that there 
were colonics of Christian Syrians settled on the coasts 
of Malabar and Coromandel, who spoke the same 
tongue which Christ spoke when he was upon earth, 
Alfred, partly from feelings of devotion, and partly no 
doubt to increase his geographical knowledge, resolved 
to send out his well-instructed friend Swithelm, Bi- 
shop of Sherburn, to India, a tremendous journey in 
those days, and one which had never been made by 
any Englishman. But the stout-hearted bishop, mak- 
ing, as it should seem, what is now called the Over- 
land journey, went and returned in safety, bringing 
back with him presents of gems and Indian spices. 
Hereby was Alfred's fame increased, and the name and 
existence of England probably heard of for the first 
time in that remote country, of which, nine centuries 
after, she was to become the almost absolute mistress.* 
Gifts also and a letter were received from the patriarch 
of Jerusalem, and some precious objects from Rome. 
To the popes Alfred sent many letters. Even in a 
temporal sense, his obligations to Rome were great. 

This Saxon king, who could practise with his own 
hand the mechanical arts, extended his encouragement 
to all the humble but useful arts, and always gave a 
kind reception to mechanics of superior skill, of whom 
no inconsiderable number came into England from 
foreign countries. " No man," says Milton, " could 
be more frugal of two precious things in man's life, 
his time and his revenue His whole an- 
nual revenue, which his first care was, should be justly 
his own, he divided into two equal parts : the first he 
employed in secular uses, and subdivided those into 
three ; the first, to pay his soldiers, household servants, 
and guard ; the second, to pay his architects and work- 
men, whom he had got together of several nations, for 
•he was also an elegant builder, above the custom and 
conceit of Englishmen in those days; the third he 
had in readiness to relieve or honour strangers, accord- 
ing to their worth, who came from ail parts to see him 
and to live under him. The other equal part of his 
yearly wealth he dedicated to religious uses, those of 
four sorts : the first, to relieve the poor ; the second, to 
build and maintain monasteries; tne third, to a school, 
where he had persuaded the sons of many noblemen 
to study sacred knowledge and liberal arts (some say 
Oxford); the fourth was for the relief of foreign 
churches, as far as India to the shrine of St Thomas." 

This great prince was anxious above all things that 
his subjects should learn how to govern themselves, 
and how to preserve their liberties ; and in his will he 
declared that he left his people as free as their own 
thoughts.! He frequently assembled his Witenage- 
mot, or parliament, ana 4 never passed any- law, or took 
any important step whatsoever, without their previous 
sanction. Down to the last days of his precious life 
he heard all law appeals in person with the utmost 
patience; and, in cases of importance, he revised all 
the proceedings with the utmost industry. His inani- 

* 'Pictorial History of England.' 

t Alfred's will (Tcstamaitum Regis JSUredx) is given at 
length both in Spelman s Life of Arthur and Wise's edition 01 
Asser. 



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fold labours in the court, the camp, the field, the hall 
of justice, the study, must indeed have been prodigious. 
" One cannot help being amazed/' says Burke, " that 
a prince who lived in such turbulent times, who com- 
manded personally in fifty-four pitched battles, who had 
so disordered a province to regulate, who was not only 
a legislator, but. a judge, and who was continually su- 
perintending his armies, his navies, the traffic of his 
Kingdom, his revenues, and the conduct of all his offi- 
cers, could have bestowed so much of his time on 
religious exercises and speculative knowledge ; but the 
exertion of all his faculties and virtues seemed to have 
given a mutual strength to all of them. Thus all his- 
torians speak of this prince, whose whole history is one 
panegyric ; and whatever dark spots of human frailty 
may have adhered to such a character, they are entirely 
hid in the splendour of his many shining qualities and 
grand virtues, that throw a glory over the obscure 
period in which he lived/'* 

Our amazement at all this bodily and mental ac- 
tivity must be increased by the indisputable fact that 
all these incessant exertions were made in spite of the 
depressing influences of physical pain and constant 
bad health. Though remarkable for the beauty of 
his person, Alfred, in his early years, was severely 
afflicted by the disease called the Jicus. This left him ; 
but at the age of twenty or twenty-one it was replaced 
by another and still more tormenting malady, the in- 
ward seat and unknown nature of which baffled all the 
medical skill of his •' leeches." The accesses of excru- 
ciating pain were frequent — at times almost uninter- 
mittent ; and then, if by day or by night a single hour 
of ease was mercifully granted him, that short interval 
was embittered by the dread of the sure returning 
anguish. But the good monk Asser, who withdraws 
the curtain and admits us into the sick room of the 
great Saxon sovereign, tells us that Heaven vouchsafed 
him strength to bear these mortal agonies, and that 

* * Abridgment of English History.' 



they were borne with a devout fortitude. The same 
antique biographer says that, in the midst of wars and 
all the impediments of his life, in the midst of the in- 
festing ot the Pagans, and his own daily corporeal in- 
firmities, he attended to the arts and his artificers — 
aurifices et artifices suos omnes — and taught his fal- 
coners, huntsmen, and dog-trainers; and built edifices 
fine beyond the use of his ancestors ; and recited Saxon 
books, and learned Saxon verses all by heart : and oft 
in the assiduousness of his study he forgot to dine ; 
and daily he heard mass and the divine ministering* ; 
and at night he was in the church at the nocturnal ser- 
vices, and praying ; and all the while he was more 
affable and jocund than all other men. The disease 
never quitted him, and was no doubt the cause of his 
death. " The shepherd of his people," " the darling 
of the English," " the wisest man in England," the 
truly illustrious Alfred, expired in the month of No- 
vember, on the festival of SS. Simon and Jude, in the 
year 900, when he was only in the fifty-first year of his 
age.* He was buried at Winchester, in a monastery 
he had founded. 

Our old writers abound with beautiful passages re 
lating to Alfred. Of the modern poets who have 
attempted to turn his history into epic poems and tra- 
gedies, nothing very favourable can be said. We hope 
some of our rising artists may, in their way, be more 
successful. The best subjects for their pencils will be 
found, not in the military adventures, and battles, and 
victories, numerous and brilliant as they were, but in 
Alfred's civil life, or in his deeds as a lawgiver, as a 
student and diligent inquirer after knowledge, and as 
an ardent promoter of whatever might contribute to 
the improvement of his country. 

* The old writers, however, differ as to the date of Alfred's 
death. Some fix it in the month of October, 901, on the seventh 
day before the festival of All Saints, and others give other 
dates. 



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1JS) 



[Ralpho rescuing the Knight.] 



HUDIBRAS.— No. XIII. 



Thb pretended goblins having got Hudibras com- 
pletely in their power, terrified and subdued by his 
own fears, and his superstitious belief in their super- 
natural character, proceed with his examination 
thus : — 

" Mortal, thou art betray 'd to us 
B* our friend, thy evil genius, 
Who for thy horrid perjuries, 
Thy breach of faith, and turning lies, 
The brethren's privilege (against 
The wicked) on themselves, the saints, 
Has here thy wretched carcase sent 
For just revenge and punishment ; 
Which thou hast now no way to lessen, 
But by an open free confession ; 
For if we catch thee failing ouce, 
Twill fall the heavier on thy bones. 
What made thee venture to betray, 
And filch the lady's heart away ? 
To spirit her to matrimony!" 

" That which contracts all matches, money. 
It was th* enchantment of her riches, 
That made m* apply t' your crony witches ; 
That in return would pay th' expense, 
The wear and tear of conscience : 
Which I could have patch 'd up, and turn'd, 
For the hundiedth part of what I earn'd." 

" Didst thou not love her then ? Speak true." 

44 No more (quoth he) than I love you." 

" How would'st th' have us'd her and her money?" 

" First tum'd her up to alimony ; 
And laid her dowry out in law, 
To null her jointure wilh a flaw, 
Which I before-hand had agreed 
T' have put, on purpose, in the deed ; 
And bar her widow's making over 
T* a friend in trust, or private lover." 

44 What make thee pick and chuse her out 
T> employ their sorceries about V 

44 Thai which makes gamesters play with those 
Who have least wit, and most to lose!" 

" But didst thou scourge thy vessel thus, 
As thou hast damn'd thyself to us f ' 

no. 835. 



44 I see you take me for an ass : 
'Tis true, I thought the trick would pass 
Upon a woman well enough, 
As 't has been often found by proof; 
Whose humours are not to be won 
But when they are impos'd upon. 
For love approves of all they do 
That stand for candidates, and woo." 

" Why didst thou forge those shameful lies 
Of bears and witches in disguise?" 

44 That is no more than authors give 
The rabble credit to believe; 
A trick of following their leaders 
To entertain their gentle readers. 
And we have now no other way ' 
Of passing all we do or say ; 
% Which when 't is natural and true 
Will be believ'd b* a very few. 
Beside the danger of offence, 
The fatal enemy of sense." 

44 Why didst thou chuse that cursed sin, 
Hypocrisy, to set up in V 

" Because it is the thriving'st calling, 
The only saints-bell that rings all in ; 
In which all churches are coticeru'd, 
And is the easiest to be leam'd : 
For no degrees, unless th' employ *t, 
Can ever gain much or enjoy *t. 
A gift that is not only able 
To domineer among the rabble, 
But by the laws empowered, to rout 
And awe the greatest that stand out, 
Which few hold forth against, for fear 
Their hands should slip, and come too near ; 
For no sin else among the saints 
Is taught so tenderly against/' 

It will be seen in this attack on hypocrisy how im- 
partially Butler inflicts his satire. In the continuation, 
which contains some ridicule of the forms of the various 
catechisms promulgated by the dissenters at the time 
he docs not spare the foibles of his own church. 

44 What made thee break thy plighted vows?' 
44 That which makes others break a house, 

And hang, and scorn ye all, before 

Endure the plague of being poor." 

Vol, XIV.— S 



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Quoth he, " I tee you have more tricki 
Thau all our d oat i rig politics, 
That are grown old, and out of fashion, 
Compar'd with your New Reformation : 
That we must come to school to you, 
To learn your more refin'd, and new/* 

Quoth he, " If you will give me leave 
To tell you what I now perceive, 
You 'd find yourself an arrant clmuse, 
If y' were but at a meeting-house." 

" Tis true, (quoth he) we ne'er come there, 
Because w' have let 'em out by th' year." 

44 Truly, (quoth he) you cant imagine. 
What wondrous things they will engage in : 
That as your fellow-friends in hell 
Were angels all before they fell : 
So are you like to be again, 
Compar'd with th* angels of us men. n 

Quoth he, " I am resolv'd to be 
Thy scholar in this mystery ; 
Aud theiefore first desire to know 
Some principles on which you go." 

" What makes a knave a child of God, 
And one of us ?" " A livelihood/* 

" What renders beating out of brains, 
And murder, godliness?" 44 Great gains." 

44 What 's tender conscience t" " 'Tis a botch 
That will not bear the gentlest touch ; 
Hut breaking out, dispatches more 
Than th' epidemical'st plague-sore." 

44 What makes y' encroach upon our trade, 
And damn all others! ' " To be paid." 

44 What 's orthodox and true believing 
Against a conscience?" A good living." 

" What makes rebelling against kings 
A good old cause?" " Admin ist'riu^s.*' 

44 What makes all doctrines plain and clear T* 

44 About two hundred pounds a year/* 

" And that which was prov'd true before, 
Prove false again?" "Two hundred more/* 

" What makes the breaking of all oaths 
A holy duty f " Food and clothes." 

44 What laws and freedom, persecution?" 

" Being out of power, and contribution." 

" What makes a church a den of thieves f* 

" A dean and chapter, and white sleeves." 

" Aud what would serve, if those were goue, 
To make it orthodox ?" •' Our own." 

*' What makes morality a crime, 
The most notorious of the time j 
Morality, which both the saints 
Aud wicked too cry out against?" ** 

" 'Cause grace and virtue are within 
Prohibited degrees of kiu : 
And therefore no true saint allows 
They sliall be sufTer'd to espouse ; 
For saints can need no conscience, 
That with morality dispense; 
As virtue 's impious, wnen 'tis rooted 
In nature only, aud not imputed ; 
But why the wicked should do so, 
We neither know, or care to do." 

44 What 's liberty of conscience, * 

I' th' natural and genuine sense?" 

" 'Tis to restore, with more security, 
Retail ion to its ancient purity ; 
And Christian liberty reduce 
To th' elder practice of the Jews. 
For a large conscience is all one, 
Aud signifies the same with none." 

44 It is euough (quoth he) for ouce, 
And has repriev'd tny forfeit bones; 
Nick Machiavel had ne'er a trick 
(Tho* he gives name to our Old Nick), 
But was below the least of these 
That pass i' th' world for holiness." 

The goblins now vanish, and while, in the dark, the 
Knight bemoans his fate, Ralpho, who had been a con- 
cealed auditor of all the proceedings, replies to him in 
the character of ghost, reproaching him with his prac- 



tices and fraudulent intentions. The opening of the 
following quotation is poetical in spite of its burlesque 
character :— 

" The queen of night, whose large command 
Rules all the sea, and half the land, 
Aud over moist and crazy brains, 
In high spring-tides, at midnight reigns, 
Was now declining to the west, 
To go to bed, and take her rest ; 
When Hmlibras, whom stubborn blows 
Deny VI his bones that soft repose, 
Lay still expecting worse and more, 
Stretch'd out at length upon the floor : 
Aud tho' he shut his eyes as fast 
As if h' had been ip sleep his last, 
Saw all the glials that fear or wizards 
Do make the devil wear for vizards, 
And pricking up his ears, to hark 
If he could hear too in the dark ; 
Was first invaded with a groan, 
And after in a feeble tone, 
These trembling words — 44 Unhappy wretch, 
What has thou gotten by this fetch; 
Or all thy tricks in this new trade, 
Thy holy brotherhood o' th' blade ? 
By saunt'ring still on some adventure, 
Aud growing to thy horse a Centaur, 
To stuff thy skin with swelling knobs 
Of cruel aud hard- wooded drubs ? 
For still th' bast had the worst ou't yet ; 
As well in conquest as defeat, 
Night is the Sabbath of mankind, 
To rest the body and the mind ; 
Which now thou art denied to keep, 
Aud cure thy laboured corpse with sleep." 

We cannot give their debate, which contains some 
severe expositions of the more extravagant doctrines 
of the dissenting sects, but Ralpho having satisfied his 
splenetic humour, at length assists the knight to 
escape from his supposed perils, without however dis- 
covering himself in his real character. After the 
knight, supposing him an evil spirit, has urged the 
services of his sect in his favour, Ralpho replies : — 

44 Right, (quoth the voice) and as I scorn 
To be ungrateful, in return 
Of all those kind good offices, 
I '11 free you out of this distress, 
And set you down in safety, where, 
It is uo time to tell you here. 
The cock crows, and the morn grows ou, 
When 'tis decreed I must he gone : 
And if I leave you here till day, 
You '11 find it hard to get away." 

With that the spirit grop'd about, 
To find th' enchanted hero out, 
And try'd with haste to lift him up; 
Rut found his forlorn hope, his crujs 
Unserviceable with kicks aud blows 
Receiv'd from hard'ned hearted foes. 
He thought to drag htm by the heels, 
Like Gresham carts, with legs for wheels ;* 
But fear that soonest cures those sores, 
In danger of relapse, to worse, 
Came iii t' assist him with his aid, 
And up his sinking vessel weigh'd. 
No sooner was he fit to trudge, 
But both made ready to dislodge; 
The spirit horsed him like a sack, 
Upon the vehicle, his back, 
Aud bore him headlong into th ( hall, 
With some few rubs against the wall. 
Where finding th' outer postern lock'd, 
And th* avenue* as strongly block'd, 

* This is a sneer at a then recent invention, which had been 
exhibited by the incipient Royal Society, men meeting at 
Gresham College, of a cart which was moved by a sort of step. 



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H' attacked the window, storm' d the gloss, 

And in a moment gain'd the pass ; 

Thro' which he dragg'd the worsted so1dier*s 

Fore-quarters by the head and shoulders ; 

And cautiously began to scout, 

To find their fellow-cattle out. 

Nor was it half a minute's quest, 

Kre he retriev'd the champion's beast, 

Tied to a pale, instead of rack, 

But ne'er a saddle on his back, 

Nor pistols at the saddle-bow, 

Convey "d away the Lord knows how. 

He thought it was no time to stay, 

And let the night too steal away ; 

Rut in a trice advanc'd the knight 

Upon the bare ridi;e bolt upright. 

And groping out for Ralphn's jade, 

He found the saddle too was stray'd, 

And in the place a lump of soap, 

(in which he speedily leap'd up ; 

And turning to the gate the rein, 

He kick'd and cudgell'd on amain. 

While Hudibras, with equal haste, 

On both sides laid about as fast, 

And spurr'd as jockeys use, to break, 

Or padders to secure, a neck/' 



Wages in the South of France. — Stopping for a quarter of an 
hour to-day at a small way-side inn, an intelligent and obliging 
hostess gave me freely such communication as I sought regarding 
the condition of the people in the neighbourhood. She said, 
that when labourers were hired it was always the custom to feed 
them; and that in addition, from twelve to fifteen sous were 
given. She sometimes employed them herself; when they had 
for breakfast bread or chesnuts ; for dinner, soup and such things 
as omelette, meat, rye-cakes ; for supper, the same as at diuner. 
Generally also wine ; but this year it is so extremely dear, that, 
she said, this was out of the question. Lowering her voice, she 
made an admission, such as that which the Teetotallers often 
enforce, that when wine was given the appetite was not so strong ; 
and in a shrewd confidential manner, she explained that on this 
principle it was quite as well for her to give some wine. — Travel* 
in France and Spain, by the Rev. F. Trench, 



Robber* and Smuggler* of Spain. — Hearing that a caravan 
was but a mile in advance, we galloped forward and joined it as 
it entered the forest. We soon afterwards heard a cry of rob- 
bers, and were shown three men in the wood, leaning on their 
guns, whom our companions recognised as forming members of 
the great banditti, whose numbers, I suspect, had been much 
exaggerated. Protected by the caravan, I felt some curiosity to 
see the highwayman of Andalusia; who, like the legitimate 
smuggler, was distinguished by a particular dress, was mounted 
on the high-necked horse of the country, and had some redeem- 
ing points in his character ; he was seldom known to commit 
murder, or inflict any personal outrage, except in cases of con- 
tinued resistance ; and affected, in the full exercise of his voca- 
tion, a lofty courtesy of manner, and a contempt for sordid 
dt rails : but these men were not mounted, and were not remark- 
able for any peculiarity of appearance. We crossed the Xenil, 
and arrived with the caravan, as night set in, at the Posada of. 
Benamegi, where we collected, as usual, round the great fire. 
As we retired to onr apartment, we offered our companions some 
wine, which they received with haughty reluctance, and were not 
satisfied till we had pledged them in their cup and broken their 
bread; but they afterwards came to our room, shook hands 
warmly with us, and entreated us to join their party on the uext 
morning. On the following day, Pusey and myself left Bena- 
megi at an early hour. The mountains of Ruti and Priego rose 
magnificently before us, and rested in the bright beams of the 
morning : we passed along some very craggy paths, and arrived 
about the middle of the day at Lucena. We found the inn 
crowded with smugglers, who conversed freely with us, and sold 
their goods without any affectation of concealment : their dress 
was handsome and their manner civil, which was not invariably 
the case at that period. Before the revolution, the Spanish 
smugglers formed a distinct class, that retained, with much 
originality of character, certain defined principles, and an esta- 



blished code of honour, upon which they professed to act. By 
this code, all robbery except the plunder of the revenue was 
highly censured, unless it took place under very peculiar cir- 
cumstances. In traversing the country, they discharged their 
daily reckonings with exactness, and often with generosity ; and, 
in spite of their illicit occupations, showed the most incorruptible 
fidelity towards persons who placed themselves under their pro- 
tection or relied on their honour. Such principles were recog- 
nised, if not acted upon, by every individual who became a 
member of the fraternity ; and continued, more or less, in force, 
while the number remained limited ; but when the change that 
was operated in the commercial policy of Spain had given a vio- 
lent stimulus to the illicit trade, a new class of smugglers sud- 
denly arose, unformed by previous habits, and solely created by 
the demand for foreign merchandise j which, in consequence of 
the new regulations, could no longer be supplied by the regular 
channels. This new class had no restraining points of pride, and 
becoming alternately smuggler and robber, they plundered the 
revenue, and oppressed the people ; but a marked distinction 
existed in the public mind, and a bitter feud prevailed between 
the old and the new race. — Lord Porche*ter** Note* to hi* Poem 
of the Moor. 



Life of a Squatter. — The reader is prepared from what I have 
said of the country to fiud the dwelling of the squatter surrounded 
by picturesque scenery. Suppose, for instance, a valley of about 
one or two miles wide, confined by banks, in some places steep, 
rocky, and wooded, in others sloping and grassy. A few large 
trees are scattered here and there over a rich alluvial flat. Either 
a chain of water-holes, or a river, runs along the ceutre, whose 
course is marked in some places hy reeds, in others by tall gum- 
trees. You see at some distance an enclosure of eight or ten 
acres, fenced with post and triple rail ; in this there is a pro- 
mising-looking crop of oats end potatoes. There is also a garden, 
fenced something in the same manner. Near this are three or 
four huts, which seem to have been dropped iu the places they 
occupy, without the least reference to each other. The principal 
one, however, stands somewhat apart from the rest, and is sur- 
rounded by a paling, which also encloses a small flower-garden. 
This hut is a rude erection, the sides of which are made of upright 
slabs, about seven feet high, plastered at the interstices, and 
whitewashed ; the roof is of baric ; a rude verandah occupies the 
front, and there are two windows of about two feet square, one 
on each side of the door. The whole hut is about twenty-two 
feet long, and about twelve feet wide. The door opens iuto the 
sitting-room, which is about twelve feet square, and has a fine 
large fire-place. It is furnished with a couple of tables, a sofa 
covered with an opossum rug, and a few chairs. The walls are 
lined with a coarse canvas, and are hung with bookshelves, a few 
prints, some guns, daggers, shot-belts, whipi, &c. The floor is 
of slabs, adzed smooth. This room is divided from the sleeping- 
room by a wall or screen reaching as high as the wall-plate of 
the hut, with an opening above it, the whole height of the pitch 
of the roof: behiud it there is a kitchen. The other huts consist 
of men's hut, store hut, shed for carts, overseer's hut, &c. : at a 
greater distance there is a wool-shed, generally a large building. 
Some huts are better and many worse than what I have described : 
it is rather under than over the usual siie — the mode mentioned 
of dividing sitting-room and bed-room by a screen is almost 
universal. I only allude to bachelor's huts ; where married 
people reside in the bush, there is of course much more accom- 
modation. Slabs are the most common material for building. 
These are a kind of plank, generally about two inches thick, and 
varying in width from eight inches to a foot : they are obtained 
by splitting with wedges the gum-tree, the stringy bark and iron 
bark. The mode of building is this : Upright corner-posts, of 
about a foot in diameter, are fixed firmly in the ground, being 
sunk about two feet deep ; a wall-plate is placed at the top, from 
one to the other of these, and firmly secured, and a sleeper at 
bottom, so as to connect all together, and form a kind of frame. 
Both wall-plate and sleeper are grooved, and tlte slabs are fitted 
iuto the grooves, and run up close together. Some huts are 
roofed with the bark of the stringy baik, or with that of the box- 
tree ; many are thatched with a kind of wire-grass ; and a few 
are roofed with a kind of laige shingle called broad paliug. — 
State and Prospect* of Port Philip, 6y C. Griffith. 



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[Parmigiano.] 



ESSAYS ON THE LIVES OF REMARKABLE 

PAINTERS.- No. XXXVIII. 

Parmioiano. 

Francesco Mazzola, or Mazzuoli, called Parmi- 
oiano, and, by Uie Italians, II Parmigianino (to ex- 
press by this endearing diminutive the love as well 
as the admiration he inspired even from his boyhood), 
was a native of Parma, born on the 11th of January, 
1503. He had two uncles who were painters, and by 
them he was early initiated into some knowledge of 
designing, though he could have owed little else to 
them, both being very mediocre artists. Endowed 
with a most precocious genius, ardent in every pursuit, 
he studied indefatigably, and at the age of fourteen he 
produced a picture of the Bantism of Christ, wonder- 
ful for a boy of his age, exhibiting even thus early much 
of that easy grace which he is supposed to have learned 
from Correggio ; but Correggio had not then visited 
Parma. When he arrived there four years after- 
wards, for the purpose of painting the Cupola of San 
Giovanni, Francesco, then only eighteen, was selected 
as one of his assistants, and he took this opportunity 
of imbuing his mind with a style which certainly 
had much analogy with his own taste and character : 
Parmigiano however had too much genius, too much 
ambition, to follow in the footsteps of another, 
however great. Though not great enough himself 
to be first in that age of greatness, yet had his rivals 
and contemporaries been less than giants, he must 
have overtopped them all ; aB it was, feeling the 
impossibility of rising above such men as Michael 
Angelo, Raphael, Correggio, yet feeling also the con- 
sciousness of his own power, he endeavoured to be 
original by combining what has not yet been har- 
monised in nature, therefore could hardly succeed in 
art — the grand drawing of Michael Angelo, the antique 
grace of Raphael, and the melting tones and sweetness 
of Correggio. Perhaps, had he been satisfied to look 
*t nature through his own soul and eyes, he would 



have done better; had he trusted himself more, he 
would have escaped some of those faults which have 
rendered many of his works unpleasing, by giving the 
impression of effort, and of what in art is called man- 
nerism. Ambitious, versatile, accomplished, generally 
admired for his handsome person and graceful man- 
ners, Parmigiano would have been spoiled by vanity, 
if he had not been a man of strong sensibility and of 
almost fastidious sentiment and refinement ; when 
these are added to genius, the result is generally a 
tinge of that melancholy, of that dissatisfaction with all 
that is achieved or acquired, which seem to have 
entered largely into the temperament of this painter, 
rendering his character and life extremely interesting, 
while it strongly distinguishes him from the serenely 
mild and equal-tempered Raphael, to whom he was 
afterwards compared. 

When Parmigiano was in his twentieth year, he set 
off for Rome. The recent accession of Clement VII., 
a declared patron of art, and the death of Raphael, had 
opened a splendid vista of glory and success to his 
imagination. He carried with him to Rome three 
pictures. One of these was an example of his graceful 
genius ; it represented the Infant Christ seated on his 
mother's knee, and taking some fruit from the lap of 
an angel. The second was a proof of his wonderful 
dexterity of hand : it was a portrait of himself seated 
in his atelier amid his books and musical instruments ; 
but the whole scene represented on the panel as if 
viewed in a convex mirror. The third picture was an 
instance of the success with which he had studied the 
magical effects of chiaroscuro in Correggio — torch- 
light, daylight, and a celestial light being all introduced 
without disturbing the harmony of the colouring. This 
last he presented to the pope, who received both the 
young painter and his offering most graciously. He 
became a favourite at Rome, and as he studiously 
imitated, while there, the works of Raphael, and re- 
sembled him in the elegance of his person and manners 
and the generosity of his disposition, the poets compli- 



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mented him by saying, or singing, that the late-lost 
and lamented Raphael had revived in the likeness of 
Parmigiano : we can now measure more justly the 
distance which separated them. 

While at Rome, Francesco was greatly patronised 
by the Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, and painted for 
him several beautiful pictures ; for the pope also, seve- 
ral, and the portrait of a young captain of his guard, 
Lorenzo Cibo, which is supposed to be the fine por- 
trait now at Windsor. For a noble ladv, a certain 
Donna Maria Buffalini, he painted a grand altar-piece 
to adorn the chapel of her family at Citta di Castello. 
This is the celebrated • Vision of St. Jerome,' now in 
our National Gallery : it represents the Virgin holding 
a book, with the Infant Christ leaning on her knee, as 
seen above in a glory, while St. John the Baptist 
points to the celestial vision, and St Jerome is seen 
asleep in the background. This picture is an eminent 
example of all the beauties and faults of Parmigiano. 
The Madonna and the Child are models of dignity and 
grace ; the drawing is correct and eJegant ; the play of 
the lights and shadows, in delicate management, worthy 
of Correggio ; the attitude of St. John the Baptist is 
an attempt at singularity in drawing, which is alto- 
gether forced and theatrical; while the foreshortened 
figure of St. Jerome in the background is most uncom- 
fortably distorted. Notwithstanding these faults, the 
picture has always been much celebrated. When the 
church in which it stood was destroyed by an earth- 
quake, the picture was purchased from among the 
ruins, and afterwards sold to the Marquis of Abercorn 
for fifteen hundred guineas ; subsequently it passed 
through the hands of two great collectors, Mr. Hart 
Davis and Mr. Watson Taylor, and was at length pur- 
chased by the members of the British Institution, and 
by them generously presented to the nation. 

It is related that Rome was taken by assault and 
pillaged by the barbarous soldiery of the Constable de 
Bourbon, at the very time that Parmigiano was paint- 
ing on this picture, and that he was so absorbed fcy his 
work, that he heard nothing of the tumult around him 
till some soldiers, with an officer at their head, broke 
into his atelier. As he turned round in quiet surprise 
from his easel, they were so struck by the beauty of his 
work, as well as by the composure of the artist, that 
they retired without doing nim any injury. But an- 
other party afterwards seized him, insisted on ransom, 
and robbed him of all he possessed. Thus reduced to 
poverty, he fled from Rome, now a scene of indescriba- 
ble horrors, and reached Bologna barefoot and penni- 
less. 

But the man of genius has at least this high privi- 
lege, that he carries with him everywhere two tnings 
of which no earthly power can rob him — his talent and 
his fame. On arriving at Bologna, he drew and etched 
some beautiful compositions. He is said by some to 
have himself invented the art of etching, — that is, of 
corroding, or, as it is technically termed, biting the lines 
on the copper-plate by means of nitrous acid, instead 
of cutting them with the graver. He was thus relieved 
from the immediate pressure of poverty, and very soon 
found himself, as a painter, in full employment. He 
executed at Bologna some of his most celebrated works : 
the Madonna della Rosa of the Dresden Gallery and 
the Madomm delV collo lungo (or long-necked Ma- 
donna) in the Pitti Palace at Florence ; also, a famous 
altar-piece called the St Margaret : of all these there 
are numerous engravings. 

After residing nearly four years at Bologna, Parmi- 

fiano returned, rich and celebrated, to his native city. 
le reached Parma in 1531, and was immediately en- 
gaged to paint in fresco a new church which had re- 
cently been erected to the honour of the Virgin Mary, 
and called the St cc cat a. There were, however, some 



delays on the side of his employers, and more on his 
own, and four years passea before he set to work. 
Much indignation was excited by his dilatory conduct, 
but it was appeased by the interference of his friend 
Francesco Boiardo, wno offered himself as his surety 
for the completion of his undertaking within a given 
time. A new contract was signed, and Parmigiano, 
thereupon^ presented to his friend his picture of 4 Cupid 
framing his Bow,' a lovely composition ;— so beautiful, 
that it has been again and again attributed to Correggio, 
and engraved under his name, but it is undoubtedly by 
Parmigiano. Several repetitions of it were executed 
at the time, so much did it delight all who saw it. 
Engravings and copies likewise abound ; a very good 
copy is in the Bridgewater Gallery : the picture which 
is regarded as the original is in trie gallery of the Bel- 
vedere at Vienna. 

At last he began his works in the Steccata, and there 
he executed his figure of Moses in act to break the 
Tables of the Law, and his Eve in act to pluck the 
forbidden fruit : the former is a proof of the height he 
could aspire to in sublime conception ; we have few 
examples in art of equal grandeur of character and 
drawing : the poet Gray acknowledged that when he 
pictured his Bard, 

*' Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Streamed like a meteor on the troubled air," 
he had this magnificent figure full in his mind. The 
Eve, on the other hand, is a perfect example of that 
peculiar grace in which Parmigiano excelled. 

After he had painted these and a few other figures in 
the church, more delays ensued. It is said by some 
that Parmigiano had wasted his money in gambling 
and dissipation, and now gave himself up to the pur- 




[Mo^es breaking the Tablet.] 



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suit of the philosopher's stone, with a hope of repairing 
his losses. One ot his biographers has taken pains to 
disprove these imputations; hut that he was improvi- 
dent, restless, and fond of pleasure, is admitted. What- 
ever might have been the cause, he broke his contract, 
and was thrown into prison. To obtain his freedom, he 
entered into a new engagement, but was no sooner at 
liberty than he escaped to the territory of Cremona ; 
here his constitutional melancholy seized him, and 
though he lived, or rather languished, long enough to 
paint some beautiful pictures, he died in a few months 
afterwards, and was, at his own request, laid in the 
earth without any coffin or covering, only a cross of 
cypress-wood was placed on his breast. He died just 
twenty years after Raphael, and at the same age, 
having only completed his thirty-seventh year. 

Parmigiano, in his best pictures, is one of the most 
fascinating of painters — dignified, graceful, harmonious. 
His children, cupids, and angels are, in general, ex- 
quisite : his portraits are noble, and are, perhaps, his 
finest and most faultless productions,— the Moses and 
the Eve excepted. It was the error of Parmigiano 
that in studying grace he was apt to deviate into affec- 
tation and become what the French call maniire: all 
studied grace is disagreeable. In his female figures he 
lengthened the limbs, the necks, the fingers, till the 
effect was not grace, but a kind of stately feebleness ; 
and as he imitated at the same time the grand drawing 
and large manner of Michael Angelo, the result con- 
veys an impression of something quite incongruous 
in nature and in art. Then his Madonnas have in 
grneral a mannered grandeur and elegance, some- 
thing between goddesses and duchesses ; and his 
female saints are something between nymphs and 
maids of honour. For instance, in the Marriage of 
St. Catherine, of which there are so many repetitions, 
(a famous one in the collection of Lord Normanton ; 
another, smaller and most exquisite, in the Grosvenor 
Gallery, not to speak of an infinitude of copies and 
engravings — for none of his compositions, not even 
the Cupid shaping his bow, has been so popular;) 
is not the Madonna with her long slender neck and 
her half-averted head far more aristocratic than divine ? 
and does not St. Catherine hold out her pretty finger 
for the ring with the air of a lady-bride? — and most of 
the sacred pictures of Parmigiano are liable to the 
same censure. Annibal Carracci, in a famous sonnet, in 
which he pointed out what was most worthy of imita- 
tion in the elder painters, recommends, significantly, 
"a little" of the grace of Parmigiano; thereby indi- 
cating, what we feel to be the truth, that he had too 
much. 



GALLEY-SLAVES. 

Cl Thus, man devotes bit brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart 
Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast." 

Cowpeb. 

Until comparatively recent times, it was the custom 
of those countries bordering on the Mediterranean Sea, 
such as the Italian States, France, Spain, &c, to con- 
demn criminals, and even those who did not deserve 
such an appellation, to labour at the galleys, where 
they were known as galley-slaves. Every one who has 
read the history of those countries, or even works of 
fiction of which they are the scene, must have met with 
some allusions to this most deplorable custom. 

The vessels which navigated the Mediterranean 
during the middle ages were principally galleasses, gal- 
leons, and galleys; all of which bore certain points of 



resemblance to each other, and were propelled chiefly 
by oars. The galleas, employed by the Venetians, was 
commonly 1G2 feet long, on deck, 133 at the keel, and 
about 32 feet wide. It was furnished with three mas!?, 
and thirty-two banks of oars: every bank containing 
two oars, and every one being managed by six or seven 
slaves, who were usually chained to it : it generally 
carried six small guns, and about a thousand men. 
The galleon was a Spanish vessel ; and the readers of 
the naval history of Great Britain cannot fail to re- 
member the exploits of our seamen in former years, in 
capturing the Spanish galleons, returning home from 
their foreign possessions laden with treasures. 

The galley, or galbre, was chiefly used by the French, 
and has come more distinctly under notice on ac- 
count of its connection with [the criminal code of the 
country. A man condemned to the galleys for life 
was thrown out of the pale of society : his lands and 
goods were confiscated ; he could not dispose of any 
of his effects ; he could not inherit property ; if mar- 
ried, his marriage became instantly null, nor could his 
widow have any of her dower out of his goods. Such 
were the civil disabilities attending a condemnation to 
the galleys ; but these were as nothing compared with 
the life which the condemned person passed on board 
the vessel. The galley was a much smaller vessel than 
either the galleon or the galleas. The banks of oars 
were ranged along the sides of the vessel ; and along 
the middle between them ran a gangway called the 
coursier. A small cabin projected from the stern, and 
served as an apartment for the officers : all else, 
soldiers, sailors, and slaves, lay above deck. The crew 
generally consisted of a captain, a chaplain, 150 men 
(forming the various classes of petty officers, soldiers, 
seamen, and servants), and 300 galley-slaves. Five 
slaves were attached to each oar ; four of whom, being 
convicts, were chained to it ; and the fifth, who was 
generally a Turk, presided at the head of the oar, and 
was a ruler over tlie other four. 

That criminal offences should be visited by the con- 
signment of the perpetrators to extraordinary and con- 
tinued hard work, is a mode of procedure which re- 
ceives countenance from the practice of our own times. 
But this fact does not prepare us to read with indiffer- 
ence the details of galley slavery, which at certain 
periods of history are peculiarly revolting. Under no 
circumstances and at no time were the horrors of this 
slavery so dreadfully experienced as at the time of the 
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and of the persecu- 
tion which followed that event. Such Protestants* as 
had neither abjured their faith nor emigrated were 
then sent to the galleys. Men of the best educated 
and most endowed minds were chained to the oars, and 
subjected to all the toil and privation incident to that 
wretched mode of life. Accounts have been published 
of the sufferings of several clergymen and otners, who 
were subjected to the most depressing cruelties. The 
most impartial testimony, perhaps, is that furnished by 
M. Bion, who was chaplain of one of the galleys, and, 
therefore, an every-day witness of what occured. We 
will here give a few details of the life of a galley-slave 
in the vessel in which M. Bion officiated about the year 
1704 ; which will serve to convey some idea of the ge- 
neral system of galley slavery, for all t bengal leys more 
or less resembled each other. 

Although there were two masts to the vessel, for the 
support of sails, and also an awning to cover the deck ; 
yet the build of the vessel was so slight that neither 
sails nor awning could be safely put up, except in very 
calm weather : consequently the motion of the ship 
almost wholly depended upon the rowers; and the 
withdrawal of the awning left them exposed to the 
scorching sun by day, and to the damps and inclemen- 
cies of the night. Thus exposed to the sky they lay at 



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ni"ht on boards a foot and a half wide. The physical 
exhaustion produced by working at the oar was very 
great, on account of its enormous size and weight, 
which made it necessary for them to rise to draw the 
stroke, and then fall back again. Whether in winter 
or summer, the perspiration trickled down their har- 
rassed limbs from the violence of the exertion ; and if 
they lagged or fainted through excess of fatigue, an 
officer posted on the central gangway inflicted personal 
chastisement with a long stick whicn he held ready in 
his hand. 

Their principal food was biscuits, and a kind of por- 
ridge made of oil and peas or beans, generally in a 
Male or musty state. Wnen the weather was too rough 
for the galley to put out to sea, such of the slaves as 
had learned trades were required to work at them on 
board; the overseer sharing half of their profits; the 
other half being paid to them, not in money, but in 
extra food ; and those who had never learned a trade, 
— perhaps had lived in ease and comfort, — were con- 
demned to clean the clothes of their associates. Such 
a course of life obviously led to frequent illness, and 
the treatment of the sick was still worse than that of 
the healthy. In the hold of the galley was a close dark 
room, witn no more air or light than was given by 
the entrance-trap or hole. At each end of this room 
was a scaffold on which the sick were laid promiscu- 
ously, with nothing but bare boards under them. M. 
Bion states that when the duties of his office called 
him to visit the miserable sufferers in this hole, he was 
presently covered with vermin, but was obliged to stay 
to confess such as were about to expire. The room 
was so low that he was forced to lie down by their sides ; 
and often while he was confessing one, another would 
expire just by him. 

The slaves on board this galley were Turks, crimi- 
nals, and Protestants. The Turks had been purchased 
by Government in order to have the guidance of the 
oars. In token of their slavery they wore iron rings 
round their ankles ; but they were not chained, and they 
had a certain degree of liberty when the galley was in 
port. The criminals were such as were, for some 
serious crimes, condemned to the galleys ; and the Pro- 
testants, about twenty in number, were consigned to 
this miserable mode of life because they refused con- 
formity to the Roman Catholic religion. The French 
Protestants or Huguenots were reduced to the level of 
the criminals on board the galleys. The yearly allow- 
ance of clothing for these slaves was two shirts made 
of the coarsest canvas, and a little jerkin of red serge, 
slit on each side up to the armrholes and having short 
open sleeves reaching to the elbows. Once in three 
years they were provided with a coarse frock and a 
little cap for their heads, which were kept close shaven 
as a mark of infamy. 

M. Le Fevre, a councillor of Paris, was about the 
year 1686 condemned to the galleys for life for refus- 
ing to abjure the Protestant religion; but being too 
weak to work the oar, he was confined in a miserable 
dungeon at Marseilles, where he died after a lingering 
captivity of sixteen years. M . de Marolles was arrested 
while endeavouring to escape with his family to some 
Protestant country, and transferred to the galleys. He 
was treated sffmewhat better than the convicts, as the 
following extract from one of his letters to his wife 
will show : — " I am lodged in one of the extremities of 
the galley, which is called the prow or beak, in a little 
cabin about seven or eight feet square. The ceiling is 
so low that I cannot stand upright in it. We generally 
lie four of ub therein ; two galeriens and two slaves. 
Twice or thrice a week I commonly boil the pot, into 
which is put five pieces of mutton, each weighing a 
quarter of a pound. There is very little beef here, and 
scarcely any veal. The other gal6rien and I eat 



together, though I alone pay for it ; but he does me 
service enough for it in other ways. Bread is dear, 
but I sometimes cat of the king's bread. As for the 
other food, that which the king allows is a half porrin- 
ger-full of beans, dressed in oil, for the whole day. J 
eat none of it; so my usual food is bread, with which 
I have of late eaten a few dried raisins, a pound of 
which cost me eighteen deniers. I lie upon a galley- 
mattress made of three or four qld coats." The reason 
why he was allowed such indulgences does not clearly 
appear, except that his health was too far injured to 
permit him to work. As he continued unfit for labour, 
he was finally removed to a dungeon on shore, where 
he was kept a prisoner for the remainder of his life. 

William Davies, a surpeon on board an English 
vessel sailing to Tunis in 1597, was, together with all 
the crew, captured by a Florentine galley, and con- 
veyed to Leghorn. Their heads were shaved and they 
were dressed in red coats and caps, and then employed 
for three years on shore, chained to carts laden with 
sand, lime, bricks, &c, which they drew from place to 
place, receiving more blows than any cart-horse in 
England, and having only as much bread and water in 
three days as they could have devoured at one meal." 
He and his companions were then sent to the galleys, 
where their misery was increased tenfold. He thus 
describes the condition of a galley-slave : — "The misery 
of the galleys doth surpass any man's judgment or 
imagination ; neither would any man think that such 
torture or torment was used in* the world, but only 
they that feel it. The extremity of misery causeth 
many slaves to kill themselves, or else seek to kill 
their officers; but we were not suffered to have so 
much as a knife about us ; yea, if we had gotten one 
by any extraordinary means, and offered any violence 
to any officer, we should presently have lost our noses 
and cars, and received a hundred blows on our bare 
back, and another hundred on the stomach, continuing 
slaves still. But I entreated Almighty God to grant 
me grace that I might endure it patiently." 

Such is a brief sketch of the mode of life to which 
a large number of educated persons were subjected 
during the existence of galley-slavery. This mode of 
punishment is inconsistent with the improved state of 
society and the higher tone of humanity happily exist- 
ing at the present time, and accordingly we find that 
galley-slavery is now almost if not enterly extinct. It 
was abolished in France some years before the revolu- 
tion of 1780. 

The name of galley-slave is, however, still applied 
to those criminals who are sentenced to the galleys, or 
to the bagne (as the punishment is now more generally 
called) ; that is, to hard labour in the docks and mili- 
tary harbours of France, Spain, and Italy. The house 
of detention at Toulon and Brest is called the Bagne 
(from the Italian bagno, a bath), from the circumstance 
of the criminals, as soon as they arrive, being made to 
bathe in warm water. The bagne is described as a 
horrid assemblage of misery, filth, and vice, a reproach 
to the criminal legislation of the country; but attempts 
are being made to reform it by the introduction of im- 
proved systems of prison discipline. The misery and 
depravity of the galley-slaves are vividly depicted by 
one of the number — Vidocq, in his • Me moires,' torn, 
i. ii. Paris, 1828. 



THOMAS FULLER 



Onb of the most remarkable writers in the English 
language is Thomas Fuller. Scarcely a writer in any 
language could be named whose works on general sub- 
jects more exactly reveal the character of their author ; 
unless in the case of Montaigne, the author speaks as 



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much about himself as about any other person or sub- 
ject. Wit, as Coleridge wrote at the end of the * Church 
History,** '• Wit was the stuff and substance of Fuller's 
intellect. It was the element, the earthen base, the 
material which he worked in ; and this very substance 
has defrauded him of his due praise lor the practical 
wisdom of the thought, for the beauty and variety of 
tlie truths into which he shaped the stuff. Fuller was 
incomparably the most sensible, the least prejudiced 
great man of an age that boasted a galaxy of great 
men. He is a very voluminous writer ; and yet, in all 
his numerous volumes on so many different subjects, 
it is scarcely too much to say that you will hardly 
find a page in which some one sentence out of every 
three does not deserve to be quoted for itself as motto 
or as maxim." 

To become ever so slightly acquainted with such a 
man cannot but be interesting. We shall briefly sketch 
his life, and then endeavour to afford some in sight into 
the peculiarities of his remarkable intellect. On the 
south banks of the Nene in Northamptonshire, two 
little villages, nearly allied in name, stand close beside 
each other, each of which boasts of being the birth-place 
of a man of genius. In the rectory of Aldwinkle, All 
Saints, John Drydetl is said to have been born : in that 
of Aldwinkle St. Peter's was born, in June, 1608, the 
subject of this notice. Little is known of his early 
day. Aubrey, in his Letters, relates that Master Fuller 
11 was a boy of a pregnant wit," and in his usual gos- 
siping way, goes on to tell that " he was of a middle 
stature, strong set, curled hair, a very working head, 
insomuch, that walking and meditating before dinner, 
he would eat up a penny loaf not knowing that he 
did it." . 

After a few years' private instruction at Aldwinkle 
he went to Cambridge, in 1621, and entered at Queen's 
College, where he remained till 1629, when he re- 
moved to Sidney Sussex. He took his degree of B.A. 
1624, of M.A. 1628. During his residence at Cam- 
bridge his uncle, Bishop Davenant, watched over his 
interests, and in 1634 presented him to the rectory of 
Broad Windsor in Dorsetshire. At Sidney he had 
Dr. Samuel Ward for his tutor, a man of considerable 
learning and of inflexible integrity: Fuller has noticed 
his worth in his ' Worthies of Durham' — •' he turned 
with the times, as a rock riseth with the tide." While 
at college he published the first heir of his invention 
— like the firstlings of so many authors— a poem : it is 
entitled * David's Hainous Sin, Heartie Repentance, 
Heavie Punishment.' It was written In his twenty- 
third year, and is a very immature production. It is 
very scarce, indeed almost unknown, and very little 
would be gained by its resuscitation. Yet, as illus- 
trating the progress of Fuller's mind, it has its value. 
Most of his peculiarities are discernible in it : there 
are the fondness for alliteration and playing upon 
words, the discursions, and not a little of the wit that 
distinguish his later productions. Speaking of the 
death of David's child, he writes — 

" Id vain the wit of wisest men doth strive 
To cut off this entail, that doth derive 
Death unto all, when first they are alive !" 

Yet this is followed by a passage of much beauty, 
though disfigured by its expression : — 

" As when a tender rose begins to blow, 
Yet scarce unswadled is, some wanton maid, 
Pleas'd with the smell, allured with the show, 
Will not reprieve it till it hath display'd 

The folded leaves, but to her breast applies 
IV abortive bud, where coffined it lies 
Losing the blushing die, before it dies." 

* ' Literary Remains/ ii. 389. 



From this time, however, his Muse was rather spar- 
ing of her favours ; except a few verses prefixed to 
the publication of an acquaintance, he meddled no 
more with metre till, towards the end of his life, 
he was inspired to celebrate ' His Majesty's Happy 
Return' in a * Panegyric,' which was first printed 
separately ; but afterwards inserted in his * Worthies' 
(Worcestershire), with an intimation that his •* Muse 
craves her own Nunc Dimittis, never to make verses 
more." 

At Broad Windsor he so gained the good-will of his 
charge, that on his proceeding to take his degree of 
B. D., four of his chief parishioners requested to be 
allowed 4i to wait on him to Cambridge, to testify their 
exceeding engagements, it being the sense and request 
of his whole parish." The seven years he remained 
here were not idly spent ; besides being diligent in the 
discharge of his ministerial functions, be wrote one of 
the most popular of his works, 'The History of the 
Holy War, and some minor matters, as sermons and 
the like ; and finally won and wedded his first wife. In 
1641 he removed to London, though not to a cure ; 
"supplying" in any of the pulpits that were offered to 
him. He speedily became one of the most popular 
preachers in the metropolis, crowds resorting to anj 
church where he was to minister. Attracted by his 
ability, the master and brotherhood of the Savoy chose 
him to be their lecturer ; which office, says the author 
of his Life (Oxon, 1662), "he did most pidusly and 
effectually discharge, witness the great confluence 
of affected hearers from distant congregations, inso- 
much that his own cure were (in a sense, excommuni- 
cated from the church, unless their timous diligence 
kept pace with their devotion, the doctor affording 
them no more time for their extrabrdinaries on the 
Lord's day than what he allowed his habitual abstinence 
on all the rest. He had in his narrow chapel two 
audiences, one without the pale, the other within ; the 
windows of that little church, and the sextonry so 
crowded, as if bees had swarmed to his mellifluous 
discourse." A year before, he hid published some 
sermons in his 'Joseph's Parti-coloured Coat,' and if 
we may judge from them, it was not surprising that he 
was so run after ; at any rate,, there could be little fear 
of a sleepy congregation. The, very titles are altrac- 
tractive : one, from the passage " Love not the wt*Hd" 
is headed " An ill match well brdken off;*' another 
is called " A Glass for Gluttons." 

[To be oontitraed.] 



The Elephant. — tn British India the elephant it seldom seen 
upon occasions of ceremony except at the courts of those princes 
who still possess any independent authority. Their general use 
at Calcutta, or within five miles of it, is prohibited, on account 
of the frequent accidents which they occasion by frightening 
horses. In the hideous ceremonials of Juggernaut, elephants are 
us< d. Five elephants precede the car of the idol, " bearing 
towering flags, dressed in crimson caparisons, and having bell* 
hanging to their caparisons." When the two sons of Tippoo were 
received as hostages by Lord Cornwall is, they were each inountt d 
on an elephant, richly caparisoned, and seated in a silver howdah. 
At Vizier All's wedding, in 1795, rt the procession was grand 
beyond conception : it consisted of about twelve huudred elephant* 
richly caparisoned, drawn up in a regular line, like a tile of 
soldiers. About one hundred elephants in the centre had, how* 
ever, dahs, or castles, covered with silver. In the midst of these 
appeared the nabob, mounted on an uncommonly laisje elephant, 
within a howdah covered with silver, richly set with precious 
stones," It was a custom with the Moguls to have their elephant s 
and horses daily paraded before them. — Knights WteJdv Volume. 
« The Elephant: 



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137 



Oh! pernicious condition of poverty! to ask help 
shames thee in thy heart, yet if thou do not ask, the 
very extremity of thv need exposes the wound that 
thou wouldest conceal. 

Thou blamest Christ, and sayest full bitterly, that he 
dtstributeth unequally temporal wealth. It is better 
to die than to be indigent. Thy very neighbour despises 
thee. 

If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence ! 

But ye, O merchants, are full of riches. Through 
land and sea ye seek your winnings. All the condition 
of kingdoms ye know. Ye be the messengers of tidings 
and tales both of peace and war, and now that I have a 
tale to tell, I were sadly at a loss, but that a merchant 
lone ago taught me one, that ye shall now hear. 

In Syria once dwelt a company of rich traders, who 

* The commencement and general tone of the Man of Law • 
narration, recall to mind forcibly the description of him given by 
the poet:— 

Discreet he was, and of great reverence, 
He seemed such, hit worde* wmrt to wise. 

no. 836. 



were accustomed to send far and wide their spices, 
cloths of gold, and satins. And it happened that the 
masters of the company went to Rome, and sojourned 
there a certain time. And every day they heard some 
rumour or other of the excellence of the Emperor's 
daughter, Custance. The general voice said, 

In her is high beaut/ wi thou ten pride, 

Youthe wi thou ten green-head,* or folly, 

To all her workes virtue is her guide ; 

Humbless hath slayen in her — tyranu/, 

She is mirrour of alle courtesf , 

Her heart is very chamber of holiness, 

Her hand minister of freedom for ilmess.f 
When the merchants had freighted their ships, and 
seen this noble maiden, they returned to Syria. 

Now it so chanced that the merchants stood high in 
the favour of the Sultan of Syria ; who, when they 
came from any strange place, would entertain them 
hospitably, and learn what tidings they brought from 
foreign lands. Among other matters they tell him of 
Custance,and that with such earnestness, that the Sultan 
* Childishness. f Alms— charitable deeds generally. 



Vol. XIV.— T 



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finds a great pleasure in keeping her constantly in bis 
remembrance ; in short, all Lis delight and care arc to 
love her. At last, sending for bis council, he tells them 
briefly, that he is but as one dead, unless he may win 
the regards of Constance, and bids them devise a 
remedy. 

They endeavoured to reason with him, suggested 
that he had been deluded and wronged by magic, and 
finally urged the difficulty attending the proposed mar- 
riage on account of the diversity of religions. No 
Christian prince, they thought, would give his child 
in wedlock to one who lived under the law of Moham- 
med. But the Sultan answered, Rather than lose 
Custance, I will become a Christian. And in the 
end, by treaties, and through the mediation of the Pope, 
the alliance was concluded, to the injury of Moham- 
medanism and the promotion of Christianity. And 
now, fair Custance, may the Almighty God guide 
thee. 

The day it comen of her departing, 
1 say the woful day fatal it come. 
That there may be no longer tarrying 
But forward they them 'dressen* all and some. 
Custance that was with sorrow all oVrcome 
Full pale arose, and 'dresseth her to wend,f 
For well she seeth there is none other eud. 
« • • 

Father, she said, thy wretched child, Custance, 
Hiy younge daughter, fostered up so soft, 
And ye, my mother, my sovereign pleasance 
Over all thing (out-taken} Christ on loft}), 
Custance, your child, her recommendeth oft 
Unto your grace, for I shall to Surrie.|| 
Ne shall I never see you more with eye. 

Alas ! unto the Barb&re nation 
T mustc gone, since that it is your will, 
But Christ, that starv'df for our redemption, 
So give me grace his hestes** to fulfil. 

To ship the sorrowful maid is brought in all solemnity. 
Now Christ be with you all, she said. Farewell, fair 
Custance, was the reply. 

In the mean time tne mother of the Sultan, a well 
of vices, has called her council about her, and thus 
spoken to them. Ye know, lords, that my son is 
about to leave the holy laws of the Koran; but I 
vow to God, the life shall start out of my body, rather 
than the law of Mohammed out of my heart. But now, 
lords, will ye consent to what I advise ? and I will then 
make us safe. Every one agreed to live and die by 
her. Then, she said, We wfii first feign to receive 
Christianity, and I will make such a feast, 

That, as I trow, I shall the Sultan quite ; 
For though his wife be christened ne'er so white, 
She shall have need to wash away the red, 
Though she a font of water with her led. 

So, on a certain day, the Sultaness rode to her son, 
and told him she renounced her faith, repented she 
had been so long a heathen, and besought him to grant 
her the honour of receiving the Christian people at a 
banquet. The Sultan said, I will do your pleasure ; 
and kneeling, thanked her for her request: — 

So glad he was, he n'istf f not what to say. 

She then kissed her son, and went home. 

The Christians now arrived. Great was the crowd, 
and rich the procession of the Syrians and the Romans. 
The mother of the Sultan first received Custance with 
a £la<l cheer, and then the Sultan himself welcomed 
her with all joy and bliss. The time comes for the 

* Them \hrcuen — i. e. address themselves. f Go. 

X Ovl-faAe/i— excepted. § High. || Syria. 

1 Died. ♦* Behest* ft &*-**** iw/— knew not. 



[Arwi.,1^ 

feast ordained by the Sultaness ; and the Christians, 
young and old, are present. Men see there royalty in 
all its magnificence, and feast on dainties more than 1 
can describe ; but all too dear they are bought. In a 
word, the Sultan and the Christians — every man — arc 
suddenly cut down and stabbed at the board by the 
Sultaness and her friends ; also every Syrian that had 
been converted. And then Custance is taken in great 
haste to the shore, with her treasure, clothes, and a 
store of provisions : — 

And in a ship all steercless (God wot) 
They have her set, and hidden her learne sail 
Out of Surrie againward to Itaille. 

And forth saileth Custance alone in the salt sea. O 
my Custance! He that is the lord of fortune be thy 
pilot ! 

For days and years she floated throughout the 
Grecian Sea, until she came to the Strait of Maroc 
Many a sorry meal does she make : often does she 
wait in expectation of the coming death, before the 
wild waves bear her to the place where she is destined 
to arrive. Men might ask why she was not slain at 
the feast? — why she was not drowned in the sea? — 
how it happened that for three years and more her 
provisions lasted ? I answer, Who saved Daniel in the 
horrible cave ? — enabled the Hebrew people to cross 
the sea dry-shod ?— and fed the Egyptian Mary in the 
cave and in the desert ? 

Custance now driveth forth into our ocean ; and at 
last, under a fort on the Northumbrian coast, the ship 
sticks fast in the sands. The constable of the castle 
goes down to see the wreck, and there finds this weary 
woman, and brings her to the land. Custance knecletn 
down and thanketh God's goodness. But who or 
what she was she would tell no one, not even though 
she were to die for her silence. But 

She said she was so mased in the sea, 
That she forgot her minde, by her truth. 

The constable and his wife Hermegild wept fur pity 
as they looked on her. They were both pagans, as 
were most else in the country, the early Christians 
having been driven out; but Custance was so diligent 
to serve and to please, 

That all her love tliat look en in her face ; 

and especially Hermegild, who cherishes her as her 
own life, and who is finally converted by Custance to 
the Christian faith. There were then dwelling near 
the castle three persons who in their privacy ho- 
noured Christ, one of whom was blind : — 

Bright was the sun as m that summers day, 
For which the constable and his wife als6 
And Custance have ytake the righte way 
Toward the sea, a furlong way or two, 
To nlayen and to roameti to and fro ; 
And in their walk this blinde man Uiey met, 
Crooked and old, with eyen fast ysheL* 

In the name of Christ, cried this blind man, give 
me my sight again, Dame Hermegild ! The constable's 
lady was in alarm, lest her husband should kill her ; 
but Custance made her bold, and bade her accomplish 
Christ's will. In astonishment the constable asked 
what the matter meant? Sir, replied Custance, it is 
Christ's might that helpeth people out of the fiend's 
snare, and therewith she explained the Christian law to 
him ; and before that evening passed, the constable 
was converted. 

A young knight of the town now began to love 
Custance with so ardent an affection, that he verily 
thought he should perish, unless he could accomplish 
her dishonour. But all his wooing availed not. lie 
could not draw Custance into sin, and in his malice he 
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determined lo bring on her a shameful death. Creep- 
ing privily one night into the chamber of Hermeeild 
Whilst the constable was absent, he slew her, and laid 
the bloody knife by the side of Custance, who slept in 
the same bed, and then went his way, xmperceived. 
Soon after, the constable came home to his castle, with 
Alia, Kingj of Northumberland, his sovereign, and 
paw his wife slain, and the bloody knife lying by 
Custance in the bed :— 

Alas! what might she say f 
For very woe her wit was all away. 

Alia was told of these circumstances, and of dis- 
tance's story, and he shuddered when he saw so be- 
nign a creature before him in such trouble. The false 
knight accuses her, but the people murmur, and say 
tbey cannot think she is guilty of such wickedness, 
having seen her ever so virtuous and so full of love for 
Hermegild. Alia, as he listened, felt strongly incited 
by the testimony in distance's favour, and thought he 
would inquire more deeply into the case. On her 
knees, Custance prayed to God to succour her : — 
Have ye not seen sometime a pale" face 
Among a pressj* of him that hath been led 
Toward his death, tvliere, as he gctteth no grace, 
And such a colour in his face hath had, 
Men mighten know him that was so bested jf 
Amongds all tlie faces in that rout, 
So stantj Custance, and looketh her about. 

.Alia, with his heart full of pity, and the tears drop- 
ping from his eyes, said, Now, quickly fetch a booK, 
if tlie knight will swear how that Custance slew this 
woman. A book of the Evangelists was brought, and 
upon it the knight swore she was guilty. At that mo- 
ment, a hand smote him upon the neck ; he fell like a 
stone ; and both his eyes burst from his head, in the 
sight of all who were in the place. Through the mi- 
racle thus vouchsafed in favour of distance's innocence, 
Alia, and many others also, were converted. And 
afterwards Alia wedded Custance : — 

This holy woman, that is so bright and sheen ; 

And thus bath Christ ymade Custance a queen. 

But there was one who looked with deep woe on 
this marriage— who thought her heart would burst as 
she saw what Alia had done, and that was Donegild, 
his mother. 



THE PENNY MAGAZINE. 



13b 



Crowd. 



t Beset. 
[To*be continued.] 



I Standeth. 



Melbourne.—ljQoking on the metropolitan city from either of 
its goodly eminences, the eastern or western hill, we can hardly 
persuade ourselves that a few years ago it was only — the ground 
on which it stands — traversed by dusky paint-smeared savages, 
and a few kangaroos; for now, running parallel with the river 
Yarra, it is a mile in length and half a one in breadth : a lusty, 
stately, bantliug of a city it is; vigorous in its growth, of a 
cheerful aspect, and graceful in its proportions. Fronting the 
river is Fliuders'-street, displaying many noble houses, with 
Knglisu-graned lawns, one of them crowned with a graceful 
dome. Of these streets, running east and west, the principal it 
Collins-street, containing the most respectable assemblage of 
shops ; in it are the batiks, most of the places of worship, and it 
is indeed the great and well-known thoroughfare. Many other 
streets there are as large, all of convenient width, none so thronged 
and respectable. Queen-street and Elizabeth-street are the next 
in /importance, ruuniug south and north. Bourke street is the 
most frequented of any on the arrival of English and Scotch 
ships, for in ir, at the corner of Elizabeth-street, is a convenient 
and good buildup — tlie Post-office ; now respectable, for now it 
has a respectable postmaster. The Mechanics' Institute in 
Collins-street is very well as a building— not so the debt upon it, 
1600/. It has a library, very small ; and its secretary, an intel- 
ligent man, and as an artist well known, reflects credit on the 
astablUhmeut. It would reflect as great credit on the Colonial 
Government if it would liquidate the debt, especially as it is the 



only town hall ; therein being held the meeting of the Town 
Council. Of the buildings next in importance are the Court- 
house, the gaol, tlie Custom-house; and pre-eminently will be 
tlie best building in Melbourne — anew bank in Colli us -street, 
of brown stone, and, with its Grecian architecture, graceful 
exceedingly. The market-place is large enough for an infant 
city, and so are tlie market due* Since Melbourne has been 
incorporated, the streets have improved considerably, good order 
has increased and been enforced, and so have the town rate*. A 
change has also taken place in the magistracy much for the 
better ; and in other respects also. After all, the best and most 
encouraging object in Melbourne, and in Australia Felix, is not 
its Court-house, nor yet its capacious prison, but its large hand- 
some bank in Collins-street; for it is a bold announcement that 
the country will progress, and become prosperous and wealthy. 
The objects which in the town first attract the stranger's notice 
are the flags — not flag-stones — though of these there arc some, bat 
more dirt — flags flying about auction-rooms, and the everlasting 
jingle of auction bells. Some dozen of such rooms there are : 
there is a constant gleam of crimson flags, and distressing is the 
clang of bells. These auctions serve instead of English pawn- 
brokers' shops. Here are disposed of whatever almost in the 
shape of merchandise can be mentioned, paid for by insolvent- 
merchant schedules; and therefore, as they cost little, are sold 
amazingly cheap. Next to the bell noise makers, what strikes ns 
as quite colonial is the immense numbers of drays, many loaded 
with Wood drawn by four, six, and eight bullocks : few drays 
drawn by horses iu proportion. There is not so much variety in 
the shops as in old countries, necessity having, whilst there were 
few, compelled die shopkeepers to deal in almost everything. 
Thus " General Stores" are common. Another peculiarity : you 
see many people not to be mistaken ; hard-faced, grim-visaged, 
dry-countenanced workmen — and women too — whom at a glance 
you recognise to have been convicts. Even amongst the richer 
folk there are some not disguised by dress or wealth. The 
dresses of the people are peculiar too ; light colours, and of lighter 
texture. The houses are roofed with wooden shingles — not in- 
elegant covering— and the heads of the human creatures with 
straw. Walking along Coll ins- street, you 6ee of shops kept by 
Jews very many — Levi's, Lazarus's, Nathan's, Soloman's, 
Simeon's, and Benjamin's. There is no lack of Liverpool, Man- 
chester, and Loudon Marts — grand shops (one of them the 
smartest in Melbourne), all kept by these people. Other pecu- 
liarities there are, quite Ausfraliau. On our first arrival we 
frequently met walking about on tlie Eastern Hill — tame, of 
course — two emus. Parrots, the gorgeous native parrots, abound 
iu cages ; cockatoos also, but generally at liberty. On lawns 
and grass-plots hop about, or bask iu the sun, tame kangaroos. 
At one of tlie inns a pelican stalks in and out very leisurely. 
Nor is it anything extraordinary to see tame opossums and other 
animals of the country — tame exceedingly. But of all objects 
the wild, grotesque, painted, feather-ornamented, tea-tree- besom 
carrying natives, with their singular costumes, war implements, 
and their wild gestures, grouped and scattered over the town, 
atid with the shaggy accompaniment of dogs, give its most 
original feature to Melbourne. The most delightful circum- 
stance regarding Melbourne is its present position, standing as it 
does open on every side ; your ingress and egress unobstructed 
by any kind of fences. You have not to enter it by roads, as you 
do towns in old countries. All the country so smooth, tree 
studded, and park-like; with a deal of its old primaeval freedom 
and gracefulness about it. Much of this land will be sold, some- 
time enclosed, and built upon ; but surely Melbourne will not be 
suffered to become a large overgrown town, in a hot country, 
without ample prevision of spacious parks and squares being 
made for its ornament, and for the healthful exercise and recrea- 
tion of its outpouring, wall -pent, work-wearied people. — Iwpres* 
sions of Australia Felix, by Richard Howitt. 

Rice-Paper. — The plant from which the pithy substance 
vulgarly called '* rice-paper" is prepared, seems to be a legu- 
minous species growing in marshes, and found iu some parts of 
India. The square piece* purchased iu China are obtained 
from the stem, which, not being above an inch or two iu 
diameter, is cut in a circular manner, and the cylinder in this 
manner rolled out and flattened. It is from the same plant, iu 
all probability, that the pith-hats of India are made; and the 
fishermen there are said to use the substance as floats for their 
nets, the specific gravity being less than that of cotk, and the 
buoyancy being so much greater.— An<y/if's Weekly Volume : 
♦ The Chinese.' 

T 2 



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[Apkil 12 



[HUg Hunt— Swimming.] 



LOCOMOTION OF ANIMALS.— No. XIV. 

Swimming continued, — Quadrupeds. The specific 
gravity of nearly all mammiferous quadrupeds is less 
than that of water, and hence they are capable of float- 
ing on its surface without requiring the interposition 
of the limbs. We have familiar examples of the spe- 
cific gravity of quadrupeds in the horse, dog, cat, deer, 
&c. If, for instance, we cause either of the above- 
named animals to be thrown into deep water, we ob- 
serve that they speedily rise to the surface, and remain 
there as long as the limbs are auiescent, and when the 
limbs move they strike out in the proper direction with 
precision, although they may never previously have 
been out of their depth in water. But if we inquire 
how it happens that these animals are enabled, with- 
out the aid of experience, to swim at once the first 
time they are plunged into water, we find on investi- 
gation that the limbs of mammiferous quadrupeds move 
in water precisely as they do on land, and no new action, 
either as regards direction or order, is required, as is 
the case with man, to enable them to swim ; and as they 
are specifically lighter than water, they need no force 
to be employed to keep them above the surface. In 
hunting the stag or the fox, it is not an uncommon 
occurrence for the animal, when hard pressed in the 
chace, to plunge into a stream and swim across the 
water, the hounds following. The huntsman, relying 
on the tact of his horse, plunges fearlessly with it into 
the water, and arrives safely on the opposite bank. In 
these cases the horse carries its rider above the sur- 
face, thus showing that the specific gravities of the 
man and horse combined are much less than that of 
the water. 

Many of the mammiferous animals are amphibious, 
and possess the faculty of sustaining themselves dur- 
ing lengthened periods under water. Of these, seve- 
ral species have the feet furnished with a membrane 
between the fingers and toes ; such, for example, as the 
otter tribe. These animals are excellent swimmers, 
and their agility in the water is surprisingly great. 
It appears tnat nearly all mammiferous animals can 
swim if necessitated to do so ; and it should be borne 
in mind that this has been accounted for by their 
being gifted with two qualities essential in swim- 
ming ; the one arising from the specific gravity, and 
the other from the circumstance of the natural move- 
ments of the limbs being the same both on land and 
in water. 

Birds (Aves). — Amongst the birds, those of the order 
Natatore* are, as their generic name implies, best 
adapted for swimming. The figure of the breast re- 
sembles that of the keel of a boat ; the body being 
clothed with a thick plumage, tends to increase the bulk 
without very materially augmenting the weight The 
plumage is very compact, and being lubricated with 
an oleaginous secretion, the water cannot penetrate to 
the skin. The bones of the skeleton are extremely 



light, and many of them are hollow, so that the specific 
gravity of birds is much less than that of water : in- 
deed were it not so they would be utterly unable to swim, 
and much less to fly in the rarer medium of air. The 
specific gravity of birds is so much less than that of 
water, that we observe, as in the grebe petrel. &c. 
(Fig. 1), that by far the greater portion of the body 



[Glebe Petrel] 

is above the water as they lie flat on its surface. They 
require, therefore, no action of the limbs to sustain 
them on the water, and, for the purpose of progression, 
the feet, which act as oars, are variously and most ex- 
quisitely contrived. For example, in the grebe each 
toe is furnished with a distinct membrane (Fig. 2), 



Foot of Grebe. J 

the margins of which overlap each other ; but in the 
merganser, and many other aquatic birds, such as the 
duck and goose, the same membrane extends to the three 
toes (Fig. 3). In swimming the effective stroke is pro* 
duced by the feet alternately ; that is, whilst one foot is 

flushed backwards the other is drawn forwards (Fig. 4). 
ti the effective stroke the foot is extended and the toea 



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[Kider Duck .J 

expanded so as to present the greatest surface possible 
to the water ; it is then driven backward with force, the 
effect of which is to drive the body forwards. In the 
back stroke the foot is flexed, and the toes are brought 
together so as to present the least surface to the water, 
and produce as little action as possible. The back 



[IWaktct Auk.] 

stroke of the leg tends to retard the body, and it is only 
the difference in the amount of the force of these 
strokes that is effective. Sometimes both feet are 
driven backwards and drawn forwards simultaneously, 
and the body moves by a series of jerks. 

Some of the water-birds make use of their wings as 
sails ; the swan, for instance, may be often observed 
partially to elevate the wings and spread them out to the 
wind, and thus move by the force of the wind alone, 
like a sailing vessel. 

Fishes. — It is well known that fishes reside constantly 
in water ; they are indeed so organised that they can 
neither live nor move out of it but for a very short 
time. Their specific gravity is very nearly equal to 
that of water ; but they are also endowed with the 
power of varying their specific gravity, so as to raise 
or lower themselves in the fluid at pleasure. We have 
seen that the human race can vary the specific gravity 
of the body, by drawing in and expelling the air from 
the lungs; but fishes, not having the same kind of 
respiratory organs, cannot do so in the mere act of 
respiration. As a large number of fishes, however, 



are obliged to sustain themselves surrounded on all 
sides bv the water, it would require an endless play of 
muscular force to retain them in such a position, if 
their specific gravity were either greater or less than 
that of the water. To prevent this continual waste of 
vital power, they have been provided with an air- 
bladder, which they have the power of distending and 
contracting at pleasure ; this bladder is placed in the 
body immediately under the spine, and above the 
centre of gravity, being the best position to keep the 
body steady, and prevent its turning over when the air- 
bladder is distended. When the air-vessel is filled, the 
animal is lighter than water, and it rises ; and when 
the air is expelled, it becomes heavier and sinks. 
This hydrostatic apparatus cannot but strike with 
admiration every one who contemplates the beautiful 
adaptation of fishes to the end they are destined to 
serve in animal creation. 

Some fishes, such as the rays and soles, are destitute 
of a swimming-bladder ; but as they generally reside 
at the bottom of the sea, they do not require one: 
when they swim, in order to prevent their sinking 
they must use as much extra force as is conferred 
on other fishes by the air-bladder. The locomotive 
organs of fishes consist of fins and tail, the former 
of which are variable in size, number, and di- 
rection. The figures of fishes are also various, but in 
some of them, such as the cod, salmon, and mack- 
erel, the figure is supposed to approximate, more 
nearly than others, to that which is considered by 
mathematicians to offer the least resistance to their 
progress in the dense medium they inhabit. In the 
perch tribe we find the greatest number of fins, 
being as many as eight ; these arc termed the two pec- 
toral, two dorsal, two ventral, one anal, and one caudal. 
These several names are given in consequence of their 
relative situations on the body. The pectoral fins are 
supposed to represent the arms, and the anal fins the 
legs, of the higher orders of animals. In the gurnard it 
may be remarked that the pectoral fins {Fig. 5, a, rr 4 ), are 



Gurnard.] 

very large, as are also the dorsal (b c) ; the caudal (<?) 
increases in surface as it recedes from the body. The 
whole of the fins are more or less employed in certain 
kinds of movements. In order to ascertain the true 
use of the fins in swimming, Borrelli having cut off 
the ventral fins of a living fish, put it back again into 
the pond. It then rolled from side to side like a 
drunken man, and could not keep an upright position. 
When the fish move with great velocity, the pectoral 
fins are laid close to the body, in order that they may 
not retard its motion, and in rapid motion, the tail 
becomes the great propelling organ of motion. We 
shall therefore now investigate its mode of action. 
The first movement of a fish from a state of rest is 
produced by the flexion of the tail (as seen in Fig. 6, 
at a) ; during this movement, the centre of gravity (c) 
is drawn slightly backwards. When the tail has 



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arrived at a, it is forcibly extended by its muscles in 
the direction a i, perpendicular to its plane: the force 
of its action upon the water, in a t, is translated to the 
fish in the direction of % a, causing the centre of gra- 
vity (c) to move obliquely forwards, in the direction 
c A, parallel to t a. The tail having reached the 
central line c d, its power of urging the body forwards 
not only ceases, but during its flexion on the opposite 
side in the line a o, it tends to draw the body back- 
wards, in the direction o e. Having reached the point 
o, it is again rapidly extended in the line o e t causing 
an impulse on the centre of gravity in c b, parallel to 
o e. If the two forces c h and c b acted simultaneously, 
we should obtain the resultant e f; but as they do not, 
the point (c) will not move exactly in the right line 
ef, but in a curved line which lies evenly between 
tie/ and aline drawn parallel to it through h. The 
fish being in motion whilst the tail moves from side to 
?idc, according to Borelli. it describes an ellipse 
instead of a circular arc, which would be the case if 
the body were stationary and the tail only moving. 
The velocity with which fishes move, and the continu- 
ance of their movements, are enough to give us an 
idea of the great strength of their muscles, especially 
when we reflect on the density of the fluid which is 
opposed to their speed. Those fishes which have 
occasion for great speed (such as the shark, as well as 




rTailofSUMk.J 

other predaceous fishes), have their tails forked (Fig. 7). 
In theic the area of the surface of the tail is in the 



inverse ratio of the distance from its axis of motion,. 
This figure is that which may be considered best 
adapted for great velocity of progression. When the 
surface of the tail increases as its distance from the 
centre of gravity of the animal, the muscles act at a 
mechanical disadvantage, and the animal can proceed 
but slowly. In whales the surface of the tail is pro* 
portional to the enormous bulk of the body ; but the 
plane of the tail is transverse, or in the mesial plane 
of the body, instead of being perpendicular as in 
fishes ; and its action is at right angles to that of fishes 
also. The force of the tail must be very great, inas- 
much as they have been observed to throw themselves 
quite out of the water, many feet in height, into 
the air. , 

As we descend lower in the scale of organised 
beings, we find an illimitable number of aquatic 
animals. The lobster, prawn, and shrimp swim back- 
wards by the action of the tail; but in these the effec- 
tive stroke is during the flexion of the tail, and not the 
extension, as in fishes. Many insects are also aquatic ; 
such as the dytiscus and others. The various forms of 
animalcules also present objects of curious research in 
their moving in liquids; but we must forbear entering 
into the numerous details connected with these micro- 
scopic animals, in order to take very briefly into con^, 
sidcration the mechanism and conditions under wbiclj. 
animals arc capable of flying in the air. { . 

. CASSE TTA DE' BURATTINI. 

POLlClNELLA — PtINCH. 

[Concluded from p. 100 ] ' 

Punch is a universality, and of a remote and indis- 
putable antiquity. He is found in so many countries 
and at such distant periods of time, that it is impos- 
sible to say where or when he had his origin. He is as 
popular in Egypt and Syria and Turkey as ever he 
was in London or Naples. Under the name of Kara- 
guse, or Black-Snout, he has amused and edified the 
grave, bearded citizens of Cairo and Constantinople 
for many an age. Some living traces of him have 
been found in Nubia, and in other countries far above 
the cataracts of the Nile; while types or symbols of 
him have, according to some interpreters, been dis- 
covered among the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyp- 
tians. He was popular at Algiers ages before the 
French went to conquer that country. The children 
of the wandering Arabs of the desert know him and 
cherish him. He is quite at home among the lively 
Persians, and beyond the Red Sea and the Persian 
Gulf, and the Indian Ocean, Karagusc, or Black-Snout, 
is found slightly travestied in Hindustan, Siam and 
Pegu, Ava and Cochin-China, China Proper and Japan. 
The Tartars behind the great wall of China are not un- 
acquainted with him, nor are the Kamtchatkans. He 
has recently been discovered leading an uncomfortable 
sort of existence among some of the Afghan tribes, to 
whom no doubt he has been introduced by the Persians* 
Some of the learned have opined that Punch and the 
whole family of Burattini, or puppets, were originally 
introduced into Europe from the East at the time of 
the Crusades ; but their hypothesis seems to be defi- 
cient in any solid foundation of fact. Others, per- 
plexed with the difficulty of his genealogy, have Sup- 
posed that Punch must have had several fathers, or 
several distinct origins at different times and in dif- 
ferent parts of the world ; and as Punch is made up ot 
the stuff which is found wherever man is, this seems 
to be a good theory. Yet, to treat of him only in his 
European existence, he is rather a mysterious character. 
Capponi and other erudite Italian authors consider 
him as a lineal representative of the Atellan farcers, 
who amused the people of Campania and the citi* 



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zcns of Rome as far back as the time of the Tar- 
quins. These Atellan farcers were Oscans, and 
took their name from the town of Atclla, which stood 
where the village of Sant' Elpidio now stands, about 
two miles to the south-east of the modern town of 
Aversa, and only some six or seven miles from the city 
Of Naples, the head-quarters of Policinella. The 
Italian antiquaries found a convincing resemblance 
between Policinella's master and a little figure in 
bronze with a beak or chicken nose to its face, which 
was discovered at Rome; and from this chicken nose 
they derive Punch's Neapolitan name, PuSus signifying 
a chicken, Pullictnus a little chicken, &c. Another 
bronze figure with the same nose or beak was disco- 
vered a few years ago among the bronzes dug out of 
Hcrculaneum ; and in the ancient guard-room at 
Pompeii (before parts of the stucco were broken and 
purloined by some shameless travellers), there was a 
figure drawn upon the wall by some idle Roman 
Soldier, which closely resembled the Neapolitan Punch, 
riot only in feature but also in costume and gesture ; 
and this rude but no doubt faithful delineation had 
been buried for sixteen centuries under the scoriae, 
pmnice, ashes, and cinders of Mount Vesuvius before 
il was restored to light. 

The Atellanac Fabulae, or Ludi Osci (the Atellan or 
Ofecan farces'), were anterior to any Roman or Italian 
stage. They were played upon planks and tressels— 
their theatre not being unlike that of the modern 
Ciarlatano, or mountebank. The actors spoke their 
own Oscan dialect, even as Policinella always speaks 
the Neapolitan dialect. One of their never-failing 
characters was Macchus, a roguish clown or buffoon, 
who made merry with everybody and everything, and 
who Is believed to have worn a mask exactly like that 
of the modern Neapolitan Punch. But there were 
indisputably other and better family resemblances and 
points in which the most ancient Oscan Macchus claims 
affinity with the true Punch of all ages and countries 
(excepting only the English Punch when engaged in 
his conjugal differences^. The old Oscan had a natural 
elegance and an unfathomable store of good-nature ; 
he had no envy or malice, he loved those he made sport 
of, and in his most satirical allusions his object was to 
excite joyous and innocent laughter, and not to rouse 
feelings of hatred or contempt. Hence, in the most 
high and palmy state of Rome, he and his Oscan farces 
were admired by all classes of the community. Livy laid 
down the pen of history to listen to his drollery; Cicero 
paused to hear him as he went to or returned from the 
Forum ; and critics of refined taste applauded his jests : 
nay Sylla, or Sulla, that mighty ana terrible dictator, 
was said at one time of his life to have written Atellan 
farces for the Oscan Punch to play in. Throughout 
the period of the Empire, or at least from the time of 
the Emperor Augustus down to that of the last of the 
Caesars, these Ludi Osci enjoyed an undisturbed popu- 
larity. Like other good things they were eclipsed 
or trodden under foot in the anarchy and barbarism 
which followed. Some think that they were entirely 
destroyed, together with every memory of their having 
once existed ; but this is at the least problematical. 
We rather lean to the opinion of those who maintain 
that, like the Delhi Lama in Thibet, Punch within the 
limits of Naples was the great * Undying One.' We 
look upon the story told by the learned and acute 
Galiani, in his Vocabulary of the Neapolitan dialect, 
as^upon a mere revival. The story goes thus : — " Onco 
upon a time (it was a very long time ago) a company 
or strolling comedians chanced to arrive at the town 
of Acerra, near the city of Naples, in the season of 
vintage. At that merry season, even more than in 
Carnival time, the country people are allowed all the 
liberty and licence of the ancient Saturnalia : they 



daub and stain themselves with the wine-lees, put 
wreaths or garlands upon their heads, dress up a young 
man as Bacchus, and an old one as Silenus, give full 
play to their lungs and tongues, and play nearly all the 
Pagan pranks that were performed by their ancestors 
or predecessors in the soil two thousand years ago at 
the same joyous season of the year. Whomsoever they 
see they accost with songs and jests. Judge, therefore, 
how the vintagers gathered round the strolling players 
with their jokes and vociferations. The universal rule 
is that everybody must either pay a fine or cap the 
jests. The comedians, being jest-makers by profession, 
and poor by destiny, tried the latter course, but were 
beaten and silenced. One of the vintagers, called 
Puccio d' Aniello, or Puccio the son of Aniello, remark- 
able for a very queer nose, and for an appearance 
altogether grotesque, was the most forward and witty 
of all his band, and it was his torrents of drollery and 
fancy that drove the poor players out of the field. 
Reflecting on this occurrence professionally (so goes 
Galiani's story), the comedians thought that a character 
like that of their antagonist Puccio d* Aniello might 
prove very attractive on the stage ; and going back to 
the vintager they proposed an engagement to him, 
which he accepted. The engagement proved pro- 
fitable to both parties ; and wherever they went and 
acted, whether in the capital or in provincial towns, 
Puccio d' Aniello drew crowded houses. After some 
years Puccio died, but his place was presently filled 
by a competent and every way worthy successor, who 
assumed his name, liquifiea into Polecenella (the 
strictly correct designation in the Neapolitan dialect), 
and also his manner and costume, and not having the 
same natural nose, he perpetuated that feature of the 
facetious vintager by wearing a mask for the upper 
part of his face, upon which Puccio's nose was livelily 
represented. By degrees, personifications of the ori- 
ginal Puccio d'Anicllo were multiplied all over the 
kingdom ; and the name and character of Polecenella 
became ini mortal." 

This is the whole of Galiani's story ; and a very good 
story it is. But the acute reader will see and bear in 
mind that Acerra, the named birth-place of Puccio, lies 
in the Oscan territory, and a very little way from 
Atclla, the native home of Macchus and the Ludi Osci. 
He will also remember the antique bronze figures with 
their typical noses, and the delineation on the wall ot 
the guard-house at Pompeii, as well as the good ety- 
mology which derives the name from the hooked nose 
or beak. Moreover it remains to be mentioned that 
though Policinellas were multiplied after the demise 
of Puccio- d'Aniello, and have been multiplied in all 
succeeding ages, there has never been more than one 
true and real Policinella living at any one given time, 
while there has never been any time since the obscu- 
ration of Puccio without its one real and super-ex- 
cellent Policinella. The Neapolitans no more expect 
two at a time than they expect two suns or two moons. 
Their one Punch has his temple and shrine in the 
capital ; the rest that flit about in the provinces are 
pseudo-Punches, with nothing of the character save 
the mask and dress. We say little; we never try to 
broach a theory or to build up a system ; but we think 
of the Delhi Lama in Thibet who was born again young 
as soon as he died old, and of the perpetual re-juve 
nescence of Punch in this Oscan corner of the kingdom 
of Naples; and then, — but a word to the wise is 
enough. 

During our long stay at Naples we had lafelicita di 
conoscere— the happiness of knowing two Policinellas. 
The first was so admirable, so killingly droll, that wc 
could not hope to see his loss supplied ; hut no sooner 
had he sickened and died than another Policinella 
sprung up, ready and perfect, and so like his pre- 



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decessor that he might have passed for him hut for the 
misfortune and blemish of his having only one eye. 
We knew this second Punch off the stage as well as on 
it. The poor fellow could scarcely read, and yet his 
mind was a well-spring of wit and fun, and of the 
raciest and richest humour. Much of what he said on 
the stage was his own invention or composition, and it 
very often came from him as an impromptu. He had 
always something to say on the event or predominant 
folly of the day, and most facetiously did he say it in 
his broad open-mouthed Neapolitan dialect, which we 
take to be the most happy of all vehicles for the con- 
veyance of humour, ana perhaps also of wit. One of 
the pieces in which he was very great was entitled 
1 Le Novanta-Nove Disgrazie di Polecenella,' or 
'The Ninety-nine misfortunes or mishaps of Punch/ 
He was also very eminent in ' l'Accademia de' Poeti,' 
or the • Academy or Club of Poets,' where he revelled 
in sports and jests at the expense of the poetasters and 
sonneteers of the day, who, like the Roman verse- 
makers in Horace's time, had an inveterate habit of 
stopping their acquaintances in the streets and public 
places, and there holding them fast while they recited 
with loud voice and passionate gesticulations their last 
compositions. All these plays or farces were from be- 
ginning to end in the Neapolitan dialect : the drollest 
of the standing characters next to Punch being II Bisce- 
gliese, or Man of Bisceglia, and 11 Tartaglione, or the 
Stutterer. The Biscegliese, who was a true comic 
genius, and a native of Bisceglia in the province of 
Apulia, where the modification of the national verna- 
cular is exceedingly droll, represented a whole class, 
being that of the Apulian townspeople* The stam- 
merer or stutterer was always attired as a provincial 
lawyer or notary, and his fun consisted chiefly in the 
strange way in which he dislocated his words and sen- 
tences. As Policinella was always Policinella, so was 
the Biscegliese always the Biscegliese, and the Tarta- 
glione the Tartaglione. They never played any other 
parts ; but the pieces in which these standing charac- 
ters were introduced varied in plots and incidents, and 
while some of them were new, others boasted a very 
respectable antiquity. This truly national theatre was 
situated not far from the great theatre of San Carlo 
(the most extensive and, on the whole, most splendid 
opera-house in Europe), on one side of the Largo del 
Castello, or Castle-square : it was called San Carlino, or 
little San Carlo ; and little it was, and far from being 
splendid in its appointments and accessories. The 
boxes were on a level with the street or square, but to 
get to the pit you had to descend some thirty feet into 
tne bowels of the earth, and to dive down a steep stair- 
case not unlike that by which Roderick Random and 
his faithful Strap dived for their dinner. The price 
paid for admission was very small ; we think it was 
about a shilling for a seat in the boxes and about six- 
pence for a seat in the pit. Everywhere there is a 
" fashionable world," and a set of superfine people who 
deprive themselves of much racy and innocent amuse- 
ment from a notion that it is not genteel. San Carlino 
was rarely visited except by the second and third rate 
classes of burgesses, for the native fashionables consi- 
dered it as "low," and very few foreigners ever acquired 
a sufficient knowledge of the patois or dialect to enjoy 
and fully understand these rich Neapolitan farces, and 
the perennial wit and humour of our friend Punch. 
But before we quitted Naples this ridiculous prejudice 
seemed to be on the decline, for a few young men of 
family, who had wit as well as high birth, had appre- 
ciated the genius of that living Policinella, and had 
made the little cellar almost fashionable. For ourselves, 
we very often strolled away from the gorgeous and fine 
and thoroughly artificial Opera-house, to enjoy a little 
homely nature and drollery in San Carlino, wncre we 



have laughed moxe than we shall ever laugh again. 
As in every other theatre in the city, there was always 
present a commissary of police, to preserve order and 
decorum, and check any too free use of the tongue on 
the stage. This representative of the laws and of 
majesty itself, wore a blue court-cut coat embroidered 
with silver ; he sat in what we call a stage-box, on a 
high-backed chair, covered with faded crimson velvet ; 
and behind his back there were two large wax-candles 
and the royal arms of the Two Sicilies painted upon a 
hit of board. But not all this official splendour could 
repress the hilarity or stifle the roguish impromptus of 
friend Punch ; and we have at times seen the starch- 
visaged commissary, after some vain attempts to main- 
tain his dignity, hold both his sides and join in the uni- 
versal roar of laughter : and this too even when Signor 
Policinella had gone beyond bounds and handled mat- 
ters strictly tabooed. What Forsyth said of the Molo 
and the Marionettes, and out-door Punch, might be 
more correctly applied to San Carlino :— " This is a 
theatre where any stranger may study for nothing the 
manners of the people. At the theatre of San Carlo 
the mind, as well as the man, seems parted off from 
its fellows in an elbow-chair. There all is regulation 
and silence : no applause, no censure, no object worthy 
of attention except the court and the fiddle. There 
the drama — but what is a drama in Naples without 
Punch ? or what is Punch out of Naples? Here, in his 
native tongue, and among his own countrymen, Punch 
is a person of real power ; he dresses up and retails all 
the drolleries of the day ; he is the channel and some- 
times the source of the passing opinions; he can 
inflict ridicule, he could gam a mob, or keep the whole 
kingdom in good humour. Such was Dc Fiori, the 
Aristophanes of his nation, immortal in buffoonery/'* 
How it fares with the little theatre of San Carlino 
and the inn-door Punch we know not ; but we have 
just received a letter from a travelling friend which 
contains the mournful intelligence that the out-of-door 
Punch and the Burattini in general have been suffer- 
ing a worse than heathen persecution at the hands of 
the present king and government ; that povero Polici- 
nella is banished from his home and country, and that 
in consequence of these and similar improvements all 
life and brio are vanishing from the streets of Naples. 
It is some comfort to know that Punch at the same 
time is becoming more popular at Paris than ever he 
was before. 

* Remarks on Antiquities, Arts, and Letters, daring an ex- 
cursion in Italy, in the years 1802 and 1808. 



Scenery of Palestine and England, — Alas! for the little 
wild flowers of Eugland, that here and there peep forth ami 
sparkle among the brambles of the thicket, or cluster in bunches 
far apart upon the short turf of the open grove, when compared 
with the blaze of rich ranunculus, anemone, and gaudy iris, 
carpeting the green sward of the woods of Palestine, and the 
cyclamen that absolutely perfumes the air far around. Yet one 
principle of gladness is wanting m these lands, to which the 
classical and sacred writers were not insensible in their descrip- 
tions of the charm of woodland scenery, but which they nem 
enjoyed in the measure in which it abounds in our northern 
countries— the song of birds. Nothing is to be seen movtssr in 
these shades, but here and there the majestic crane stalking 
between the boles of the trees — uotbing heard but the rustle of 
the kite or vulture when he bursts from among the boughs, aad 
soars screaming to the skies. And these but bespeak the deep 
loneliness, which for a moment they disturb, to leave it with- 
out a living thing to be seen, or a living sound to break the 
silence of your solitary path.— Lands, Classical and Sacred, 
by Lord Nugent. 



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[II Ciarlatano.— I'rom Pinelii.] 



IL CIARLATANO. 



Th* Ciarlatano, or Charlatan, or mountebank, was a 
very frequent sight in the streets and squares of Rome 
in the days of Bartolommeo Pinelii ; although then, 
and a few years later, that personage was seen still 
more frequently in the streets of Naples. Generally, 
however, he was native to neither of those two places. 
Judging from their language and accent, we should 
say that nearly all these Italian Charlatans, between 
the years 1815 and 1827, were natives of Tuscany, 
only a few being from Lombardy, from Brescia, Ber- 
gamo, fee. Their impudence and loquacity, their 
quickness of hand and eye, and of repartee, were 
exceedingly amusing. Some of them almost rivalled 
the popularity of Punch and the Burattini, whom 
they always affected to treat with great contempt. 
Their dress was varied, but always very fantastical 
and fine. Although they dealed exclusively in the 
healing art, they gave a decided preference to the cos- 
tume of the killing art : we never saw one of them 
dressed at all like a doctor (not even like the quack- 
doctor of Venice and of Italian comedy^ ; but we have 
seen scores of them habited like soldiers. Most of 
our acquaintance had a decided predilection for the 
showy cap, and gold-laced, embroidered, and tagged 
jacket of the hussar, and for Turkey-red or amaran- 
thine-coloured pantaloons. Moreover, they often wore 
Hessian boots, with many wrinkles over the calves, 
and with long ringing brass spurs at the heels. Nor 
was the trailing sabre or the natty cartouche-box miss- 
ing, the latter often serving as the depository of the 
most precious of the drugs they were trying to vend. 
They invariably wore glittering ear-rings in their ears, 
and heaps of rings on their hands. . They would tell 
the poor peasants what great man or great dame had 
given them this ring, or that, for some wonderful 
cure ; and in the eyes of the credulous their glass and 
paste easily passed for diamonds and other precious 
stones. Nor is it to be supposed that the ear-rings 
detracted from their martial appearance. As late as 
the end of Bonaparte's career most of the French and 
Italian army wore ear-rings. We have seen mous- 
tached colonels of dragoons and bearded grenadier 
officers wearing diamond ear-rings. Murat, the 
greatest of cavalry officers and sabreurs, never gave 
up the fashion. He had a pair of diamond rings in 

no. 837. 



his ears when all his adventures were so tragically 
finished at Pizzo in Calabria. 

The stage on which the Ciarlatano exhibited con- 
sisted of a few planks laid upon tressels, with a canvas 
screen at the back, and sometimes with a smaller 
canvas screen on either side, on which were painted 
dragons, serpents, and other monsters, both real and 
imaginary. At most the stage was little more than a 
bench, called in Italian banco, whence the professional 
synonyme of mountebank. When well furnished, the 

Erofessor (they alwavs styled themselves professor*) 
ad a number of bottles and phials, containing snakes, 
vipers, scorpions, hugeous spiders (not omitting the 
Calabrian tarantula, the bite of which can be cured by 
nothing but dancing \), and some three or four live 
serpents of different sizes. The " tortoise hung" was 
not uncommon ; and we have now and then seen the 
"alligator stuffed." Hie "other skins of ill-shaped 
fishes" were quite common, as were also the " empty 
boxes," and 

" Green earthen pots, bladden, and musty seeds, 
Remnant* of packthread, and old cakes of roses ;'* 

which make up the stock-in-trade of Shakspere's 
Mantuan apothecary. 

The live snakes are made to play a very great part 
in all these exhibitions. In Italy, as in England, the 
only reptile of this shape whose bite is at all poisonous 
is the viper or adder, and there, as here, that creature 
is not very often found in the commission of mischief. 
But the Ciarlatano counts on the deep-rooted and uni- 
versal antipathy men bear the serpent, and although 
no peasant ever knew any harm done by any of the 
species he handles so fearlessly, they are all astonished 
at his courage or at his magical skill as they see him 
let the great black and green snakes twist round and 
round his neck, and hiss (as be pinches them) into his 
open mouth, or as he throws back his hussar jacket 
and converts his bare arm into a sort of Caduceus 
wand, with serpents coiling round it, and across one 
another, and uniting their hissing heads above his 
uplifted hand. We cannot say that we ever saw them 
deal either with live vipers or live scorpions (all of 
their scorpions and vipers being preserved in spirits]), 
but we are told by the ingenious Francesco Redi, 
author of the best modern dithyrambic and anacreontic, 
* Bacco in Toscana,' in one of nis proso works, that the 



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Ciarlatani of bis time, in order to show the power and 
the value of their antidotes, were accustomed to eat 
scorpions and the heads of vipers. And this they 
might do without any danger, provided only they 
killed the creatures first and avoided being stung or 
bitten ; for the venom, which is dangerous when intro- 
duced into the blood, is perfectly innocent when intro- 
duced into the stomach, and vice versa — so that Queen 
Eleanora might have sucked the wound inflicted upon 
her husband by the poisoned dagger with very little 
peril to herselL The antidotes which Redi (who was 
a learned physician and naturalist, as well as an excel- 
lent poet) treats with little respect, are still sold by the 
professori, and consist entirely of viper-broth or of 
some of the spirit in which the scorpion or the other 
reptiles have been preserved. But we have seen these 
liquids sold not merely as cures, but also as prevent- 
ives, the vender assuring his credulous customer that 
so long as he kept them no noxious creature could 
sting or bite him. To the viper-broth many other 
additional virtues were attributed. But, without any 
direct aid from Charlatans, the faith in this panacea is 
still very strong among the rural population of Eng- 
land; and we were recently assured by a Kentish 
gamekeeper that there was nothing like a decoction of 
vipers, or "viper's oil," for the curiug of all manner 
of bad eyes. Indeed there was not a physical evil 
under the sun but these professors would cure with 
their decoctions, their elixirs, their powder- charms, 
and their pills ; while most of these evils were to be 
prevented if the good people would only buy their 
charms in time. Some of our home-born and home- 
practising quacks display considerable genius with the 
pen, and in advertising and puffing by means of neus- 
pa|>ers and hand -bills and placards ; yet their perform- 
ances are dull indeed compared with the extemporised 
effusions and spoken eloquence of the Italian professors 
we were acquainted with a quarter of a century ago. 
Their name of Ciarlatano is derived from the verb 
Ciarkzre— to talk a great deal, and without any atten- 
tion to truth. No men could have better merited the 
name, or could have talked more and with a bolder 
defiance of fact. Yet their lies, stupendous in their 
magnitude, were generally well linked together, being 
all, as Tony Lumpkin expresses it, " in a concatenation 
accordingly." Tnere was one professore that used to 
exhibit among the Trasteverini at Rome, and to travel 
frequently between the Eternal City and Loretlo, Sini- 
gaglia, and the various papal towns on the Adriatic 
shore. Most of his brethren had a scrap or two of old 
and dirty parchment, which they would flourish in the 
eyes of the ignorant as diplomas from foreign uni- 
versities ; but this fellow, instead of one or two, had 
a score of such parchments, some of which, as he 
solemnly represented, were diplomas conferred upon 
himself, some ol them diplomas conferred upon his 
father, and some upon his grandfather : for the me- 
dical sciences were hereditary in his family, and his 
grandfather bad attained to the highest fame as family 
physician to the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa or the 
Red-beard 1 It was nothing to him that this great 
emperor had been dead considerably more than six 
hundred years. He cared nothing for chronology, or 
for geography, or for any other stubborn science ; he 
counted with an illimitable confidence upon the igno- 
rance of his auditory, and upon the effect to be pro- 
duced by great names and sonorous phrases ; and his 
imagination being altogether untrammelled, it took the 
boldest flights. He could cure the emperor of China 
of a fever and ague at Pekin on one day, and draw a 
tooth of the Great Mogul of India at Delhi on the 
next; from India to England was but a step to him, 
and he could traverse Spain, France, Germany, Rus- 
sia, with a speed tenfold greater than that of the 



seven-leagued boots. Wherever he had been, his pills 
and elixirs, his charms and antidotes, had done mira- 
cles, and had procured for him gold and glory. The 
Cham of Tartary was in despair when he quitted his 
court, and the Czar of Muscovy had gone into deep 
mourning the day he had left him. But, such was his 
love for bis own native country of Italy, and more 
especially for the Trasteverini of Rome, or the good 
people or Loretto or of Sinigaglia (or of any other place 
where he might chance to be), that he had renounced 
all the advantages which foreign courts and potentates 
could confer upon him, in order to offer to the said 
good people a cure for every complaint and the means 
of reaching a healthful and a happy old age for a few 
half-pence or farthings a-piece. " Here 's a box of 
pills, he would say, opening and showing the contents 
of the box, " here 's a box of pills for ye ! I have had 
twenty scudi for a smaller one, but ye shall have it for 
twenty bajocchi ! What, nobody to buy ? Ah, untu- 
tored people, ye know not what ye are losing ! Well, 
such is the love I bear ye, ye snail have it for ten 
bajocchi. How! no one to buy at ten? There, old 
yellow face, take it at five, 't will cure thy tertian and 
drive away all future effects of malaria. What ! not 
take it at five ? The Great Mogul would give me the 
golden crown off his head for it f Well, give me three 
bajocchi, for I see thou art but poor, old yellow face. 
So ! and now here 's an elixir ! My elixirs are more 
wonderful than my pills. I wish ye could only go to 
Pekin and ask the principal wife of the emperor's 
head minister, that great mandarin Fom-fo-fee, what 
one of these little bottles did for her. Mayhap, too, 
the great king of England could tell you something 
about this magical potion, for it was all through one of 
these little bottles tnat he beat Bonaparte and nut the 
Dey of Algiers in an iron cage ! There is health and 
strength in this elixir, there is beauty and love in this 
elixir, there is long life in this elixir, there is every- 
thing that is good in this elixir :" — and so he would go 
on with a never flagging extravagance, until he sold 
the balm of life for two or three pence. 



CHAUCER'S 
CANTERBURY TALES. 



Thk Man of Law's Talk— concluded. 



Is course of time Custance gave birth to a male child, 
and the Constable sent a messenger to Alia, who was 
then engaged in warfare with the Scots, to convey to 
him the joyous tidings. The messenger, on bis way, 
went to the king's mother, saying, Madnme, ye may be 
glad and blithe, my lady queen hath a child. Lo, here 
this sealed letter that I bear in all haste ; and if ye 
will send aught unto the king, I am your servant ever. 
Donegild answered, Not now ; but thou shalt rest here 
all night, and to-morrow I will say what I wish. 

The messenger then drank much ale and wine, and 
while he slept afterwards, his letter was taken from 
the box, and a counterfeited one put in its place. In 
this it was said the queen had been delivered of a 
creature so horrible and fiend-like, that no one durst 
abide in the castle, and that the mother was a witch, 
whom every man hated. 

Unhappy was the king when he received this letter, 
but he wrote back :— Ever welcome to us be the will 
of Christ. Keep the child, be it fair or foul, and a!*o 
my wife, till I come home. When Christ plrascs, he 
may send me an heir more agreeable to me. He wept 
as he sealed the letter. 

Returning from the king, the messenger again 
alighted at the court of Donegild, who was glad to see 



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him. and did Ml she could to please Mm. Again he 
drank and slept, and again were his letters stolen, and 
counterfeits substituted, in which the king commanded 
the Constable that he should not suffer Custance to re- 
main four days longer in the kingdom :— 
But in the same ship as he her found, 
Her and her younge son, and all her geer 
He sboulde put, and crowd her from the lond, 
And charge her that she never eft* come there. 

The messenger took the letter to the Constable, who, 
when he had read it, exclaimed, again and again, 
Alas! alas! 

Lord Christ, quoth he, how may thii world endure, 

So full of sin is many a creature I 

Old and young— all wept, when they heard the con- 
tents of the letter : and Custance, with a face pale as 
death, went toward the ship; and kneeling on the 
shore, said— Lord, ever welcome be thy command : 

He that me kepte from the fals£ blame 

While I was in the land amonges you, 

He can me keep from harm and eke from shame 

In the salt sea, although I see not how ; 

As strong ai ever he was, he is yet now ; 

In him trust I, and in his mother dear, 

That is to me my sail, and eke my steer, f 

Her little child lay weeping in her arm, 
And kneeling piteously, to him she said, 
Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm : 
With that her coverchief off her head she braid, J 
And over his little eyen she it laid, 
And in her arm she lulleth it full fast, 
And »nto the heaven her eyen up she cast. 

Mother, said she, Mary, maiden bright ! true it is that 
through woman's incitement mankind was lost, for 
which thy child was rent on the cross. Thy eyes saw 
all his torment. Thou sawest him slain before thine 
eyes, whilst my little child yet lives :— 

Now, Lady bright! to whom all woful crien, 
Thou glory of womanhood, thou faire May, 
Thou haven of refute,§ bright star of day, 
Rue on my child, that of thy gentleness 
Ruest on every rueful in distress. 

Alas! little child, what is thy guilt ? Oh, dear Con- 
stable, have mercy, and let my child dwell with thee ; 
or if thou darest not save him, kiss him once in the 
name of his father. 

Looking back to the land, she said— Farewell, ruth- 
less husband ! then rose and walked toward the ship, 
the crowd following her. 

And ever she prayeth her child to hold his peace; 
and so she takes leave of the people, and goes intoHhe 
shin, which, abundantly victualled, was now let loose, 
and driveth forth into the sea. 

Soon after this Alia came home into his castle, and 
asked for his wife and child. The Constable felt his 
heart grow cold as he listened, but presently showed 
him the letter, saying, Lord, as ye commanded me, so 
have I done. The messenger was put to the torture, 
and at last it was discovered who had written the 
letter, when Alia put her — his own mother — to 
death : — 

The sorrow that this Alia night and day 
Maketh for his wife, and for his child also, 
There is no tongud that it telleth may : 
But now I will again to Custance go, 
That fleeteth in the sea in pain and woe 
Five year and more. 

At last, under a heathen castle, the sea cast up Cu- 
stance and her child. People came down from the 
castle to gaze on her and on the ship. Among them, 
one night, the lord's steward, a man who had renounced 

* Again. + Helm, juide. J Took. § Refuge. 



our creed, came into the ship alone, and offered vio- 
lence to her. 

Hef childe cried, and she cried piteously; 
but suddenly the thief fell overboard, and was drowned 
in the sea. 

Once more goes forth the ship, driving through the 
narrow mouth of Gibraltar and Ceuta : — 

Sometime 1 west, and sometime north and south, 
And sometime east, full many a weary day. 

Let us now leave Custance awhile, and turn to her 
father, the Emperor of Rome. 

When he heard of the slaughter of the Christians, 
and of the dishonour done to his daughter by the Sul- 
taness of Syria, he sent his Senator, with other lords, 
to take vengeance on the Syrians. These lords burn, 
slay, and bring great evil on the country, for a long 
time, and then take ship to return home. As the 
Senator saileth royally towards Rome, he meets the 
ship driving along with Custance. 

Nothing ne knew he what she was, ne why 

She was in such array, ne will she say 

Of her estate, though that she should dey.* 

He bringeth her to Rome ; and to his wife 

He gave her, and her younge son als6, 

And with the Senator she led her life. 

Thus can our Lady bringen out of woe, 

Woful Custance, and many another me : 

And louge time dwelled she in that place 

In holy workes ever, as was her grace. 
The Senator's wife was the aunt of Custance, but 
nevertheless knew her not. 

About this time King Alia, in remorse for the death 
of his mother, determined to take a journey to Rome 
in penance. On his approach, the Senator rode forth 
to meet him and to do him honour ; and in a day or 
two after, the Senator went to a feast given by King 
Alia, and took with him the son of Custance :— 

Some men would say at request of Custance 

This Senator hath led this child to feast : 

I may not tellen every circumstance; 

Be as be may, there was he at the least, 

But soth in this, that at his mother's hestf 

Before Alia, during the meates space 

The child stood, looking in the kinges face. 

This Alia king hath of this child great wonder, 

And to the Senator he said anon, 

Whose is that faire child that standeth yonder 1 
I know not, said the Senator ; a mother he hath, but 
no father to my knowledge. Then he told Alia how 
the child and Custance had been found. But, God 
knows, I never before beheld so virtuous a woman. 

Now was this child as like unto Custance 

As possible is a creature to be : 

This Alia hath the face in remembrance 

Of Dame Custance, and thereon musdd he 

If that the childes mother were aught she 

That is his wife: 

Then sighing, he suddenly quitted the table. By my 
faith, he thought, there is a fantasy in my head. I 
ought to rest satisfied that my wife is dead in the salt 
sea ; yet again, how know I, but Christ may have sent 
my wife hither, as he first sent her to my own land. 
In the afternoon he went home with the Senator, who 
hastily sent for Custance. She could scarcely stand 
upon her feet when she knew the cause of the message. 
As soon as Alia saw his wife, he 

wept, that it was rut he for to see, 

For at the firste look he on her set 

He knew well verily that it was she ; 

And she for sorrow as dumb stood as a tree, 

So was her hearte shut in her distress 

When she remembered his unkindeuess. 
* Die f Behest. 

U2 



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Twice die swooned. Weeping piteously, he excused 
himself. Now God, said he, have mercy on my soul, 
as i am as guiltless of your harm, as is Maurice, my 
son, so like yourself in countenance. 

Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain 
Ere that their woeful heartes mighten cease, 
Great was the pity for to hear them 'plain, 
Through whiohe plainte* 'gan their woe increase. 
I pray you all my labours to release 
I may not* tell their woe until to-morrow, 
I am so weary for to ipeak of sorrow. 

But when the truth is known, I trow, they kissed each 

other a hundred times ; 

And such a bliss is there betwixt them two, 

That save the joy that lasteth evermo', 

There is none like that any creature 

Hath seen or shall, while that the world may 'dure. 

Custance then prayed Alia to incline the emperor 
her father to dine with him, and in the meantime to 
say no word of her. The day came, and Alia and his 
* Cannot 



wife prepared to meet the emperor ; and they rode 
forth in joy and in gladness; and when she saw 
her father approach, she alighted, and fell at his 
feet. 

Father, quoth she, your younge child, Custance 
• Is now mil clean out of your remembrance. 

I am your daughter, your Custance, that was put in 
the salt sea and condemned to die. Now father, 
mercy, send me no more unto heathen lands, but thank 
my lord here for his kindness. 

Who can the piteous joye tellen all 

Betwixt them three, since they been thus ymetl 

The child Maurice was afterwards made emperor by 
the Pope, and did great honour to Christ's church. 
Alia with his sweet and holy wife returned to Britain, 
and there lived in happiness for a short year or so, 
when he died. Custance then returned to Rome, and 
her father and friends, where 

In virtue and in holy times deed 
Tbey liven all. 



[Cuckoo and Hedge-Spamm.) 



THE YEAR OF THE POETS. 

No. V.— Birds. 

Th* cuckoo—" the plain-song cuckoo" of Bottom the 
weavar, — the " blithe new-comer," the " darling of the 
spring," the "blessed bird" of Wordsworth, — the 
"beauteous stranger of the grove," the •'messenger 
of spring" of Logan, — the cuckoo comine hither from 
distant lands to insinuate its egg into the sparrow's 
nest, and to fly away again with its fledged ones after 
their cheating nursing-time is over, little knows what 
a favourite is her note with school-boys and poets. 
Wordsworth's lines to the cuckoo— 

« O blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 
I hear thee and rejoice — " 



have been given long ago in this Magazine, and we do 
not repeat them. The charming little poem of Logan, 
which preceded Wordsworth's, is not so well known i — 
u Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
Thou messenger of spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 
What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 

Or mark the rolling year f 
Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I bail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 



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The school-boy, wandering through (he wood 

To poll the primrose gay, 
Starts the sew voice of spring to hear, 

And imitate* thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 

Thou flyest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
No winter in thy year ! 

O could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ! 

We 'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the spring." Loaan. 

The Swallow has been another favourite of the poets, 
even from the days of the Greek Anacreon : 
" Once in each revolving year, 
Gentle bird ! we find thee here, 
When Nature wears her summer vest, 
Thou comest to weave thy simple nest ; 
But when the chilling winter lowers, 
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers 
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, 
Where sunny hours of verdure smile. 
And thus thy wing of freedom roves, 
Alas I unlike the plumed loves, 
That linger in this helpless breast, 
And never, never change their nest 1" 

Anacreon, translated by Mooaa. 

Bat "the bird of all birds" is the Nightingale. 
Drummond of Mawthornden, though he never heard 
the u Jug-jug" in his northern clime, has left a beauti- 
ful tribute to this noblest of songsters : 

'* Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, 
Of winters past, or coming, void of care, 
Well pleased with delights which present are, 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling ftWrs: 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafly bow'rs. 
Thou, thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee be did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. 
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs 
(Attir'd in sw eetn ess) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites aud wrongs, 
And lift a reverend eye and thought ts heaven. 



Sweet, artless songstei, thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels 1 lays/' 

Dbummomd. 

Milton came after Drumraond, with his sonnet to 
the nightingale : 

"O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
Thou with fresh hope the lovers heart doth fill, 
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May ! " 

In the * II Penseroso,' the poet, dramatically speaking, 
addresses the nightingale — 

"Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy ! " 
The general propriety of the epithet has been contro- 
verted in one of the most delightful pieces of blank 
verse in our language : — 

" No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge. 

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, .. 

But bear no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night! and though the stars be dim. 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 

' Most musical, most melancholy' bird L 

A melancholy bird ! Oh I idle thought! 

In nature there is nothing melancholy. 

But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced 

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

Of bis own sorrow)— he, and such as he, 

First named these notes a melancholy strain. 

And many a poet echoes the concert ; 

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 

When he had better far have stretched his limbs 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 

By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 

Of shapes and sounds aud shifting elements 

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 

And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 

Should share in Nature's immortality, 

A venerable thing ! and so his song 



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Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-cliant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales ; and far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
They answer and provoke each other's songs 
With skirmish and capricious passaging!, 
And murmurs musical and swift jug-ju;*, 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
That should you close your eyes, you mi^lit almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwell eth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, 
That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence, till the moon 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale hail swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
And to that motion tune his wanton song 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.'' 

Coleridge. 

But the chorus of birds, the full harmony of the 
prove, is the great charm of a sunny spring-time. Old 
Drayton has made his rough verse musical with the 
ever-varied songs of the leafy Arden : 

* When Phoebus lifts his bead out of the winter's wave, 
No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave, 
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, 
But hunts-up to the morn the feath'red sy Ivans sing : 
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole, 
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole, 
Those quiristers are perch'd with many a suckled breast. 
Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glittVing East 
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humurous night 
Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight : 
On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats, 
Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, 
That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air 
Seems all compos'd of sounds, about them everywhere. 
The throttle, with shrill sharps ; as purposely he song 
T' awake the lustless sun ; or chiding that so long 
He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill ; 



The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill ; 

As nature him had markt of purpose, to let us see 

That from all other birds his tunes should different be 

For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May ; 

Upon bis dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. 

When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by 

In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply, 

As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw ; 

And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) 

Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite, 

They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night 

(The more to use their ears) their voices sure would spare, 

That moduletb her tunes so admirably rare, 

As man to set in parts at first bad learn'd of her. 

To philomel the next, the linet we prefer; 

And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then, 

The red-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast, and the wren. 

The yellow-pate ; which though she hurt the blooming tree, 

Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. 

And of these chaunting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, 

That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. 

The tydy from her notes as delicate as they, 

The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay, 

The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves, 

Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) 

Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun, 

Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, 

And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps 

To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps." 

Drayton. 

Hey wood, no great poet, but as a dramatist full of 
simple pathos, has given us a pretty love-song in which 
the biros are to serenade his mistress: 

11 Pack clouds away, and "welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow ! 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I '11 borrow ; 
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 

To give my love good-morrow ! 

To give my love good-morrow, 

Notes from them both I '11 borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, 

.Sing birds in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow! 
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow ! 

To give my love good-morrow, 

Sing birds in every furrow ! M Hkywood. 

Coleridge says that the language of birds is love : 

Do you ask what the birds say t The sparrow, die dove, 
The linnet and thrush say, " 1 love and I love.*' 
In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong; 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud soug. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, 
And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he — 
" I love my Love, and my Love loves me !*' 

COLBRIDGB. 

Wordsworth holds, and with a deep philosophy, that 
the language of birds is the expression of pleasure. 
Let those whose hearts are attuned to peace, in listen- 
ing to this language, not forget the poet's moral : — 
" I heard a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 



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Through primrose tufa, in that sweet bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
And 'tis my faith that ever flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played ; 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
But the least motion which they made, 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

From Heaven if this belief be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man." 

Wordsworth. 



DEAFNESS. 



One of the most interesting auto-biographical books, 
perhaps, that ever was published, whether considered 
in a physiological or moral point of view, has just 
appeared in tne series of Weekly Volumes. It is 
entitled 'The Lost Senses— Deafness,' and is written 
by Dr. Kitto, the editor of the Pictorial Bible, whose 
interesting condition and character became generally 
known some twelve years ago through some papers 
written by him in the Penny Magazine. The intro- 
ductory chapter of this little book, which we proceed 
to quote, is most curious in itself, and renders any 
furtner explanation on our part unnecessary :— 

" Any one who has spent a considerable portion of 
time under peculiar, or at least undescribed, circum- 
stances, must have been very unobservant if he has 
nothing to relate in which tne public would be inte- 
rested. It may be, indeed, that such a person lies 
under the same obligation to the public of describing 
his own condition, as a traveller is under to render his 
report respecting the unexplored countries which he 
has traversed in his pilgrimage. It is under this im- 
pression that I now write. I am unwilling to quit this 
world without leaving behind me some record of a con- 
dition of which no sufferer has yet rendered an account. 

" The condition itself is not entirely new ; and that it 
has not been hitherto described, may be owing to the 
fact that a morning of life subject to such crushing 
calamity, has seldom, if ever, been followed by a day of 
such self-culture — which is the only culture possible, — 
and of such active exertion, as seems indispensably 
necessary to prevent the faculties from rusting under 
the absence of the diverse influences by which they 
are, in ordinary circumstances, brought into working 
condition for the useful labours at which all men 
should aim, and for the struggles necessary to self- 
advancement in a country and in a time like this. 

"My case is this. It has pleased Providence that 
three-fourths of a life now at its meridian, should be 

fiassed in the most intense deafness to which any 
iving creature can be subjected ; and which could not 
be more entire had the organs conducive to the sense 
of hearing been altogether wanting. It is the con- 
sequences resulting from this position that form the 
theme which I have now placed before me. For one 
who is deaf, my life has teen studious; and for one 
who has been both deaf and studious — or indeed for 
any one— : ray life has not been uneventful. I know 
not, however, that I have any right to obtrude the 
events or studies of my life upon the public notice, 
and it is not my intention to refer to them farther than 
may be necessary to bring out the points and pecu- 
liarities of the deaf condition. From the multifarious 
matters arising from the activities of a life which once 
seemed doomed to inertion, I shall select those only 



which anse from, which illustrate, or which are in any 
remarkable way connected with my deafness. It is 
needful to explain this, lest in sketching the natural 
history of my deafness, I should be supposed to offer 
a biography of myself. 

" I became deaf on my father's birthday, early in the 
year 1817, when I had lately completed the twelfth 
year of my age. The commencement of this condition 
is too clearly connected with rny circumstances in life 
to allow me to abstain from troubling the reader with 
some particulars which I should have been otherwise 
willing to withhold. 

" My father, at the expiration of his apprenticeship, 
was enabled, by the support of his elder brother, an 
engineer well known in the West of England,* to com- 
mence life as a master builder, with advantageous con- 
nections and the most favourable prospects. But both 
the brothers seem to have belonged to that class of men 
whom prosperity ruins: for after some years they 
became neglectful, of their business, and were eventually 
reduced to great distress. At the time I have specified, 
my father had become a jobbing mason, of precarious 
employment, and in such circumstances tnat it had 
for some time been necessary that I should lend my 
small assistance to his labours. This early demand 
upon my services, joined to much previous inability or 
reluctance to Btand the cost of my schooling, and to 
frequent head-ache, which kept me much from school, 
even when in nominal attendance, made my education 
very backward. I could read well, but was an indif- 
ferent writer, and worse cipherer, when the day 
arrived which was to alter so materially my condition 
and hopes in life. 

•' The circumstances of that day-— the last of twelve 
years of hearing, and the first of twenty-eight years 
of deafness, have left a more distinct impression upon 
my mind than those of any previous, or almost any 
subsequent, day of my life. It was a day to be remem- 
bered. The last day on which any customary labour 
ceases, — the last day on which any customary privilege 
is enjoyed, — the last day on which we do the things we 
have done daily, are always marked days in the calen- 
dar of life ; how much, therefore, must the mind not 
linger in the memories of a day which was the last of 
many blessed things, and in which one stroke of action 
and suffering,— one moment of time, wrought a greater 
change of condition, than any sudden loss of wealth 
or honours ever made in the state of man. Wealth 
maybe recovered, and new honours won, or happiness 
may be secured without them ; but there is no recovery, 
no adequate compensation, for such a loss as was on 
that day sustained. The wealth of sweet and pleasur- 
able sounds with which the Almighty has filled the 
world, — of sounds modulated by affection, sympathy, 
and earnestness,— can be appreciated only by one who 
has so long been thus poor indeed in the want of them, 
and who for so many weary years has sat in utter 
silence amid the busy hum of populous cities, the music 
of the woods and mountains, and, more than all, of the 
voices sweeter than music, which are in the winter 
season heard around the domestic hearth. 

" On the day in question my father and another man, 
attended by myself, were engaged in new slating the 
roof of a house, the ladder ascending to which was fixed 
in a small court paved with flag-stones. The access 
to this court from the street was by a paved passage, 
through which ran a gutter, whereby waste water was 
conducted from the yard into the street. 

* "This brother held the contract for constructing the Upper 
Road across the Lara marshes from Plymouth towards Exeter, 
and for embanking a great portion of this road from the tide. 
Tins embankment, which was locally regarded as an important 
public work, gained him much credit, being (as I have under- 
stood") on a new construction, with slate set on edge.'' 



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" Three things occupied my mind that day. One was, 
that the town-crier, who occupied part of the bouae in 
which we lived, had been the previous evening pre- 
vailed upon to intrust me with a book, for which I had 
long been worrying him, and with the contents of which 
I was most eager to become acquainted. I think it 
was Kirby's * Wonderful Magazine ;' and I now dwell 
the rather upon this circumstance, as, with other facts 
of the same kind, it helps to satisfy me that I was 
already a most voracious reader, and that the calamity 
which befel me did not create in me the literary appe- 
tite, but only threw me more entirely upon the re- 
sources which it offered. 

" The other circumstance was, that my grandmother 
had finished, all but the buttons, a new smock-frock, 
which I had hoped to have assumed that very day, but 
which was faithfully promised for the morrow. As 
this was the first time that I should have worn that ar- 
ticle of attire, the event was contemplated with some- 
thing of that interest and solicitude with which the 
assumption of the toga virilis may be supposed to have 
been contemplated by the Roman youth. 

" The last circumstance, and the one perhaps which 
had some effect upon what ensued, was this :— In one 
of the apartments of the house in which we were at 
work, a young sailor, of whom I had some knowledge, 
had died after a lingering illness, which had been 
attended with circumstances which the doctors could 
not well understand. It was, therefore, concluded that 
the body should be opened to ascertain the cause of 
death. I knew this was to be done, but not the time 
appointed for the operation. But on passing from the 
street into the yard, with a load of slates which I was 
to take to the house-top, my attention was drawn to a 
stream of blood, or rather, I suppose, bloody water, 
flowing through the gutter by which the passage was 
traversed. The idea that this was the blood of the dead 
youth, whom I had so lately seen alive, and that the 
doctors were then at work cutting him up and groping 
at his inside, made me shudder, and gave what I should 
now call a shock to my nerves, although I was very 
innocent of all knowledge about nerves at that time. 
I cannot but think it was owing to this that I lost much 
of the presence of mind and collectedness so important 
to me at that moment ; for when I had ascended to the 
top of the ladder, and was in the critical act of step- 
ping from it on the roof, I lost my footing, and fell 
backward, from a height of about thirty-five feet, into 
the paved court below. 

" Of what followed I know nothing : and as this is the 
record of my own sensations, I can here report nothing 
but that which I myself know. For one moment, in- 
deed, I awoke from that death-like state, and then 
found that my father, attended by a crowd of people, 
was bearing me homeward in bis arms ; but I had then 
no recollection of what bad happened, and at once re- 
lapsed into a state of unconsciousness. 

•• In this state I remained for a fortnight, as I after- 
wards learned. These days were a blank in my life ; I 
could never bring any recollections to bear upon them ; 
and when 1 awoke one morning to consciousness, it 
was as from a night of sleep. I saw that it was at 
least two hours later than my usual time of rising, and 
marvelled that I bad been suffered to sleep so late. I 
attempted to spring up in bed, and was astonished to 
find that I could not even move. The utter prostration 
of my strength subdued all curiosity within me. I 
experienced no pain, but I felt that I was weak ; I saw 
that I was treated as an invalid, and acquiesced in my 
condition, though some time passed — more time than 
the reader would imagine — before I could piece together 
my broken recollections bo as to comprehend it 

" I was very slow in learning that my hearing was 
entirely gone. The unusual stillness of all things was 



grateful to me in my utter eakaustitn ; and if in this 
half-awakened state a thought of the matter entered 
my mind, I ascribed it to the unusual care and success 
of my friends in preserving silence around me. I saw 
them talking indeed to one another, and thought that, 
out of regard to my feeble condition, they spoke in 
whispers, because I heard them not. The truth was 
revealed to me in consequence of my solicitude about 
the book which had so much interested me in the day 
of my fall. It had, it seems, been reclaimed by the 
good old man who had sent it to me, and who doubt- 
less concluded that I should have no more need of 
books in this life. He was wrong ; for there has been 
nothing in this life which I have needed more. I asked 
for this book with much earnestness, and was answered 
by signs which I could not comprehend. 

14 'Why do you not speak?' I cried; 'pray let me have 
the book.' 

" This seemed to create some confusion ; and at length 
some one, more clever than the rest, hit upon the happy 
expedient of writing upon a slate, that the book had 
been reclaimed by the owner, and that I could not in 
my weak state be allowed to read. 

" ' But,' I said in great astonishment ' why do you 
write to me ; why not speak ? Speak, sneak.' 

" Those who stood around the bed exchanged signifi- 
cant looks of concern, and the writer soon displayed 
upon bis slate the awful words — ' Yop aa* Deaf/ 

" Did not this utterly crush me $ By no means. In 
my then weakened condition nothing like this could 
affect me. Resides, I was a child ; sod to a child the 
full extent of such a calamity could not be at once 
apparent. However, I knew not the future — it was 
well I did not ; and there was nothing to show me that 
I suffered under more than a temporary deafness, which 
in a few days might pass away. It waa left for time 
to show me the sad realities of the condition to which I 
was reduced. 

[To be continued.] 



IntiUect amd /asriacf . — When the act ii done in ordinary and 
natural circumstance*, it may be called instinctive or not, accord- 
ing as it is what our reason could, in the like circumstances, 
enable us to perform or not, and according as the animal is in a 
situation which enables him to act knowingly or not Thus a 
bee's cell is made by a creature untaught ; a solitary wasp pro- 
rides food for an offspring it never can see, and knows nothing of. 
We set these things down to instinct If horses, fearing danger, 
appoint a sentinel, it may be instinct certainly, but there is here 
nothing to exclude intelligence, for they do a thing which they 
may well do by design, and so differ from the bee j they ace 
aware of the object in view, and mean to attain it, and so differ 
from the wasp. But these remarks apply to acts done in ordinary 
circumstances, and which I admit may or may not be instinctive. 
Another class is clearly rather to be called rational. I mean 
where the means are varied, adapted, and adjusted to a varying 
object, or where the animal acts in artificial circumstances m 
any way. For example, the horse opening a stable door, the cat 
a room door, the daw filling a pitcher with stones. So there is a 
singular story told by Dupont de Nemours in Anton's Animamx 
Crtebres, and which he says he witnessed himself. A swallow 
had slipped its foot into the noose of a cord attached to a spout 
in the College dee Quatre Nations at Paris, and by endeavouring 
to escape had drawn the knot tight Its strength being exhausted 
in vain attempts to fly, it uttered piteous cries, which assembled 
a vast flock of other swallows from the large basin between the 
Tuileries and Pont Neuf. They seemed to crowd and consult 
together for a little while, and then one of them darted at the 
string and struck at it with his beak as he flew past ; and others 
following in quick succession did the same, striking at the same 
part, till after continuing this combined operation for half an 
hour, they succeeded in severing the oord and freeing their com- 
panion. They all continued locking and hovering t31 night ; 
only, instead of the tumult and agitation in which they had been 
at their first assembling, they were chattering as if without any 
anxiety at all, but conscious of having succeeded,— Jji^ofo's 



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[Gloucester Cathedral, from the south-west.] 



GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL. 

Gloucester was a place of importance when the Ro- 
mans had possession of England, and is said to have 
been the seat of a Christian bishop before the coming 
of the Saxons. In the Saxon times, about the year 
680, a nunnery was founded near the site of the present 
cathedral of Gloucester. This nunnery, in the reign of 
Canute, about 1022, was converted into a monastery 
of Benedictines under the government of an abbot. 
The church of the monastery was rebuilt about 1058 
by Aldred, bishop of Worcester, but the New Minster, 
as it is called in the records, was burnt about 1088. 
Serlo, the third abbot, began a new church in 1089, 
which was completed in the following year, and was 
dedicated to St. Peter by the bishops of Worcester, 
Rochester, and Bangor. 

St. Peter's Abbey, though mora or less injured by 
several fires, continued, under successive abbots, to 
improve its buildings and enlarge its possessions, till, 
on the murder of Edward II. at Berkeley Castle, in 
1327, Abbot Thokey had the body conveyed to St. 
Peter's for interment ; the ceremony was performed 
with great state and solemnity ; the offerings and gifts 
of numerous persons who afterwards came to perform 
their devotions at his tomb, greatly enriched the 
abbey ; and from this time till the dissolution of the 
abbey in 1540, the church and monastic buildings were 
repaired, renewed, and extended, till St Peter's Abbey 
became the mass of architectural beauty and grandeur, 
which, after the lapse of upwards of three hundred 
yean, it still continues to be, so sound have been the 
structures, and so carefully, at least as compared with 
some of the other English cathedrals, bave the in- 
juries of time been repaired. 

The Abbey was surrendered to Henry VIII. in Ja- 
nuary, 1540, at which time its revenues were esti- 
mated at 1550/. per annum. By letters patent, dated 
Sept. 3, 1341, Henry erected "the city of Gloucester 

no. 838. 



and the county of that city, and all the county of Glou- 
cester, into a bishopric, with a dean and chapter, by 
the name of the Diocese of Gloucester ;" and ordained 
tiiat " such part of the vill and county of Bristol as was 
formerly in the diocese of Worcester, should be from 
thenceforward in the diocese of Gloucester for ever." 

By the act 6 & 7 Wro. IV., c. 77, the bishopric of 
Gloucester became the bishopric of Gloucester and 
Bristol. The diocese includes Gloucestershire, the 
city and deanery of Bristol, and the deaneries of 
Malmesbury and Cricklade in Wiltshire. The re- 
venue of the blsnop is 3700/. The corporation con- 
sists of the dean, five canons, three minor canons, 
and other functionaries. The revenue of the dean and 
chapter is 4200/., divided into eight shares, two of which 
arc appropriated to the dean, and one to each canon. 
The proceeds of one suspended canonry are paid over 
to the ecclesiastical commissioners. 

Gloucester Cathedral consists of a nave and aisles ; 
north and south transepts, over the centre of which is 
a lofty tower ; a choir and aisles, with four annexed 
chantry chapels; a lady chapel, with two annexed 
chantry chapels ; an entrance-porch on the south side 
of the nave ; the great cloisters, on the north side of 
the nave; the chapter-house, on the east side of the 
cloisters ; and a crypt. 

The crypt is believed to be of Saxon architecture, 
and to have formed a part of the church built by Abbot 
Aldred in the reign of Edward the Confessor ; and 
though it has, if this supposition be correct, existed 
nearly eight hundred years, the masonry is apparently 
as sound as when it was first built. It is exceedingly 
massive, with short pillars of amazing thickness, from 
which spring semicircular arches of proportionate 
strength, suited to sustain the immense weight which 
rests upon them. 

The lower part of the nave is probably as ancient as 
the crypt, though the height of the columns and walls 
may have been increased by subsequent additions. 

Vol. XIV.— X 



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The columns of the nave are sixteen, eight on each 
Bide, circular, plain, very thick, very high, and of equal 
diameter from hase to capital ; the arches which extend 
from column to column are small and semicircular, 
with bold mouldings and zigzag ornaments. The 
central vaulting of trie nave was completed in 1242 by 
Abbot Foliot, and then 

" the arch'd and ponderous roof, 
By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,' 1 

was gazed upon by the devout spectator with awe and 
solemn wonder. The north aisle of the nave was pro- 
bably completed soon afterwards. The exterior ot the 
south aisle, built by Abbot Thokey between 1307 and 
1329 •• at a great and sumptuous expense," is of very 
peculiar character. The buttresses, windows, and 
parapet, in style and ornament, differ from every other 
part of the church, and though not unhandsome, strike 
more by their singularity than their beauty. 

Originally there were two towers at the west end, 
but they were taken down by Abbot Morwent, who 
between 1420 and 1437 built the present west front, 
which in its composition is unlike that of any other 
cathedral in England. At the angles are two beautiful 
clustered pinnacles, between which extends a line of 
pierced parapet of great elegance, concealing the gable 
and roof. Tnere is a parapet of equally graceful open 
work at the bottom of the west window and above 
the central west door. A smaller door forms the 
entrance to the north aisle. The doors are hardly of 
corresponding excellence with the rest of the west 
front. Morwent added two arches and pillars to the 
west end of the nave, forming the vaulting of inter- 
secting ribs and ornamented key-stones, of a character 
different from the rest of the' vaulting of the nave, 
which is elsewhere plain and massive, with only three 
ribs springing from each column. 

The most admirable part of Abbot Morwent's archi- 
tectural additions is the porch attached to the side of 
the south aisle of the nave at the west end ; it is a 
work of the highest taste, and of surpassing delicacy of 
execution and richness of effect. 

The south transept is said to have been first built 
about 1160, but little of the original architecture 
remains. The windows and ornamental parts were 
completed about 1330. The north transept belongs to 
the same period, or a little later. 

The choir, built by Abbot Sebroke, is a work of 
florid gothic architecture, hardly surpassed by any 
other in England. The lofty vaulted roof, composed 
of ribs intersecting each other in the most varied 
manner, and adorned with the most elaborate and rich 
trellis-work, has an appearance of incredible lightness, 
while the rich tracery of the walls, the tabernacle-work 
of the stalls, of oak carving not inferior to those of St 
George's Chapel at Windsor, and the magnificent east 
window, filled with stained glass, and said to be the 
largest in '.his kingdom, produce a combined effect of 
the highest astonishment and admiration. 

The tower is not unworthy of the choir. It was also 
the work of Abbot Sebroke, who removed the former 
tower, and about 1454 began the present tower: he 
died, however, in 1457, leaving the completion of it 
expressly in the charge of Robert Tulley, a monk 
belonging to the abbey. The tower is divided into two 
stories, with eight windows in each story. Each win- 
dow is ornamented with mouldings, and surmounted 
by a finial. Four pinnacles of open- work adorn the 
angles of the tower, while a parapet of pierced work, 
exceedingly light and graceful, extends from pinnacle 
to pinnacle. 

The Lndy Chapel is attached to the semicircular 
east end of the choir : it was begun by Hanley, who 
succeeded to the abbacy in 1457, and completed by 



Abbot Farley, who died in 1498. In its plan it is sin- 
gular, being considerably narrower at the west end, 
where it forms a sort of entrance-vestibule, than it is 
at the east end, where the two chantries on each side 
resemble a north and south transept connected with 
the chape] by open screens. The Lady Chapel is 
hardly less rich in its architecture than the choir itself, 
of which it is a sort of continuation. The roof is one 
supepb pointed arch, with the intersecting ribs adorned 
with flowers, foliage, rosettes, and other ornaments, in 
endless variety. The two chantries are of correspond- 
ing architecture, and, though smaller, not less beau- 
tiful. 



CEflbrjr of Edward II.] 

The exterior walls of the nave are supported by 
buttresses, but those of the choir are not. A parapet 
of pierced work extends not only round the top of the 
tower, but round the top of the nave, choir, and Lady 
Chapel. 

The effigy of Edward II., whose truly splendid 
monument forms one of the many attractions of the 
interior, is a work of sculpture of rare excellence 
The canopy has been renewed, but has not been strictly 
copied from the original. The effigy of the munificent 
Abbot Sebroke, in his full ecclesiastical robes, is in the 
chapel at the south-west angle of the choir. 

The great cloisters form a square 146 feet by 148, 
and are universally admired not only for their extent, 
but for the elaborate elegance of the architecture. The 
groined roof, 17 feet high, the windows, and the side- 
wails, are embellished with a profusion of the richest 
ornaments and exquisite tracery. The principal 
entrance-gate from the cloisters into the north aisle of 
the nave is also a beautiful piece of gothic work. The 
cloisters were begun by Abbot H or ton, who succeeded 
to the abbacy in 1351, and were completed by Abbot 
Froucester, who died in 1412, 



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The Chapter-House, attached to the east side of the 
cloisters, from which there is an arched entrance-door, 
was converted into the library during the Common- 
wealth. It is an oblong room of large dimensions, with 
a very lofty arched ceiling. Some parts of it are 
evidently of early Norman work. . 

The extreme length of the cathedral is 427 feet, of 
which the nave is 170, the choir 140, and the Lady 
Chapel 92. The extreme breadth is 154 feet, of whicn 
each transept includes 66 feet. The height of the nave 
is 68 feet, and that of the tower is 225 feet. The width 
of the nave, exclusive of the aisles, is 33 feet. 



DEAFNESS. 

(Concluded from page 152.) 

"Time passed on, and I slowly recovered strength, 
but my deafness continued. The doctors were per- 
plexed by it. They probed and tested my ears in various 
fashions. The tympanum was uninjured, and the organ 
seemed in every respect perfect, excepting that it 
would not act. Some thought that a disorganization 
of the internal mechanism had been produced by the 
concussion ; others, that the auditory nerve had been 
paralyzed. 

44 They poured into mv tortured ears various infusions, 
hot and cold ; they bled me, they blistered me, leeched 
me, physicked me ; and, at last, they put a watch 
between my teeth, and on finding that I was unable to 
distinguish the ticking, they gave it up as a bad case, 
and left me to my fate. I cannot know whether my 
case was properly dealt with or not. I have no reason 
to complain of inattention, of my own knowledge ; but, 
some six months after, a wise doctor from London 
affirmed that, by a different course at the commence- 
ment, my hearing might have been restored. He 
caused a seton to be inserted in my neck ; but this had 
no effect upon my deafness, although it seems to have 
acted beneficially upon the general health. Some years 
after, Mr. Snow Harris, with a spontaneous kindness, 
for which I am happy to be able at this distant day to 
express my obligations, put my ears through a course 
of electrical operations. He persevered for more than a 
month ; but no good came of it : and since then nothing 
further has been done or attempted. Indeed, I have not 
sought any relief; and have discouraged the sugges- 
tions of friends who would have had me apply to Dr. 
This and Dr. That. The condition in which two-thirds 
of my life has been passed, has become a habit to me 
— a part of my physical nature : I have learned to 
acquiesce in it, and to mould my habits of life accord- 
ing to the conditions which it imposes ; and have 
hence been unwilling to give footing for hopes and 
expectations, which I feel in my heart can never be 
realized. 

44 It was some time before I could leave my bed, and 
much longer before I could auit my chamber. During 
this time I had no resource but reading ; and the long 
and uninterrupted spell at it, which I had now, went 
far to fix the habit of my future life. • The book to 
which I have repeatedly referred was re-borrowed for 
me, and was read without restraint. I wish this book 
had been the 'Paradise Lost,' or some other great 
work : the reader would be better pleased, and the 
dignity of this record would have been much enhanced. 
But I still think it was Kirov's 4 Wonderful Magazine;' 
and, on second thoughts, I do not know but that this 
was a very proper book for the time and the circum- 
stances. The strange facts which it recorded were well 
calculated to draw my attention to books as a source of 
interest and a means of information ; and this was pre- 
cisely the sort of feeling proper for drawing me into 
the habits which have enabled me, under all my priva- 
tions, to be of some use in my day and generation. 



41 1 had been so much in the habit, like others in my 
class of life, of regarding the Bible as a book specially 
appointed for reading upon Sundays, that I had never 
ventured to look into it on any other day. It seemed 
a sort of profanation to handle the sacred book with 
work-day fingers ; but the exhaustion of all other 
materials at length drove me to it, and then I read it 
quite through, Apocrypha and all. It is not in this 
place my business to trace the religious impressions 
which resulted from the direction which my read- 
ing had thus taken; but as much of my attention 
has been in the course of my life devoted to sacred 
literature, with results which have long been be- 
fore the public, it may be desirable to state the 
means by which this bent of study seems to have been 
created. 

44 At the period to which my present recollections 
refer, the art of reading was by no means diffused 
among the class in which I then moved, in the same 
degree as at present. Many could read : but the ac- 
quirement was not in the same degree as now applied 
to practical purposes. It was regarded more in the 
light of an occult art, — a particular and by no means 
necessary attainment, specially destined for and appro- 
priate to religious uses and Sunday occupations. Be- 
sides, books were then extravagantly dear, and those 
which were sold in numbers, to enable the poor to 
purchase them by instalments, were dearest of all. 
Hence men could not afford to procure any merely 
current or temporary literature, but desired to have 
something of substantial and of permanent worth for 
their money, something which might form a body of 
edifying Sunday reading to themselves and to tneir 
children. The range of books embraced by these con- 
siderations was very narrow : a folio Family Bible ; 
Fox's Book of Martyrs ; Life of Christ ; Josephus's 
Antiquities of the Jews; Bunvan's Pilgrim's Progress; 
Hervey'B Meditations; Drelincourt on Death (with 
Defoe's Preface, containing the Ghost Story of Mrs. 
Veal) ; Baxter's Saint's Rest ; Watts's World to Come; 
Gesner's Death of Abel ; Sturm's Reflections, &c. 
Those who launched forth beyond this range into pro- 
fane literature, were for the most part content with 
Robinson Crusoe ; Pamela ; The Arabian Nights' En- 
tertainments ; and Henry, Earl of Moreland. This was 
a selection of books not to be despised. They were all 
good, and some of them immortal works. But the 
thing was, that you could see no other books than these. 
The selection from these books varied, and it was rare 
to see the whole or a great part of them together ; but 
whenever a book was to be seen, it was sure to be 
some one of these. Periodical literature bad not 
reached even the class of tradesmen in any other shape 
than that of religion. The only periodicals within 
their reach were of a religious kind, being the maga- 
zines of their respective denominations, which were 
sold at sixpence each. Tradesmen doubtless read the 
newspapers, but the use of them (except in public 
houses) had not descended below their class; and I 
can declare that I never saw a newspaper, to read, till 
I was nearly twenty years of age, and after I had been 
in fact removed out of the position to which these first 
experiences apply. 

44 From this account it will appear that any studies 
founded upon the books to be found under these cir- 
cumstances, could not but be of an essentially religious 
tone. At a later period I fell in with books of a dif- 
ferent description in the same class, and was enabled 
to-satiate myself with controversies on the five points, 
and to treasure up the out-of-the-way knowledge to be 
found in such books as Dupin's Ecclesiastical History. 
The day came when I plunged into the sea of general 
literature, and being able to get nothing more to my 
mind, read poems, novels, histories, and magazines 

X 2 



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without end. A day came, in which any remarkable 
fact which I met with, wa3 treasured up in my tena- 
cious mind, as a miser treasures gold; and when the 
great thoughts which I sometimes found, filled my 
soul with raptures too mighty for utterance. Another 
day came, in which I was enabled to gratify a strange 
predilection for metaphysical books ; and with all the 
novelists, poets, and historians within the teach of my 
arm, gave my days to Locke, Hartley, Tucker, Reid, 
Stewart, and Brown. I think little of these things 
now, and my taste for them has gone by: but although 
I now think that my time might have been more advan- 
tageously employed, my mind was doubtless thus car- 
ried through a very useful discipline, of which I have 
since reaped the benefit. But amid all this, the theo- 
logical bias, given by my earlier reading and associa- 



tions, remained ; and the time eventually came, when 
I was enabled to return to it, and indulge it with re- 
doubled ardour: and after that another time arrived, 
when I could turn to rich account whatever uselul 
thing I had learned, and whatever talent I had culti- 
vated, however remote such acquirement or cultivation 
might have at first seemed removed from any definite 
pursuits. This point is one of some importance; and 
as I am anxious to inculcate upon my younger readers 
the instruction it involves, it may be mentioned, as an 
instance, that an acquaintance with the Hebrew lan- 
guage, which has eventually proved one of the most 
useful acquirements I ever made, was originally formed 
with no higher view than that of qualifying myself to 
teach that language to the sons of a friend, whose 
tuition I had undertaken." 



[' Poor Presbyter 1 — Field-preacbing .„ 



HUDIBRAS.— No. XIV. 

In this, the Second Canto of the Third Part, the author, 
as we have already stated, altogether leaves his story, 
and gives a rapid sketch, as a political partisan, of the 
Rebellion, and the first steps to the Restoration. Into 
this whirlpool we shall not enter, but merely endeavour 
U) draw a few flowers to the shore, to sbow the humour 
and art with which he has painted characters and 



events to suit his own purpose, 
religious discords, he says— 



Of the origin of the 



" So, ere the storm of war broke out, 
Religion spawn' d a various rout 
Of petulant, capricious sects, 
The maggots of corrupted texts, 
That first run all religion down, 
And after ev'ry swarm, its own." 



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And of these various sects he adds— 

" And yet no nat'ral tie of blood, 
Nor int'rest for the common good, 
Could, when their profits interfer'd, 
Get quarter for each other's beard. 
For when they thriv'd they never fadg'd, 
Rut only by the ears engag'd : 
Like dogs that snarl about a bone, 
And play together when they *ve uone. 
As by their truest characters, 
Their constant actions, plainly appears. 
Rebellion now began, for lack 
Of teal and plunder, to grow slack ; 
The Cause and Covenant to lessen, 
And Providence to be out of season : 
For now there was no more to purchase 
O' th' king's revenue, and the church's; 
But all divided, shar'd, and gone, 
That us'd to urge the brethren on. 
Which forc'd the stubbom'st for the Cause 
To cross the cudgels to the laws, 
That what by breaking them th' had gain'd, 
By their support might be maintaiu'd ; 
Like thieves, that in a hemp-plot lie, 
Secur'd against the hue-and-cry, 
For Presbyter and Independent 
Were now turn'd plaintiff and defendant, 
Laid out their apostolic fuuctions, 
On carnal orders and injunctions ; 
And all their precious gifts and graces 
On outlawries and scire facias ; 
At Michael's term had many a trial, 
Worse than the Dragon and St. Michael, 
Where thousands fell, in shape of fees, 
Into the bottomless abyss. 
For when, like brethren, and like frieuds, 
They came to share their dividends, 
And ev'ry partner to possess 
His church and state joiut- purchases, 
In which the ablest saint, and best 
Was nam'd in trust by all the rest, 
To pay their money ; and, instead 
Of ev'ry brother, pass the deed ; 
He straight converted all his gifts 
To pious frauds and holy shifts . 



And settled all the other shares 
Upon his outward man and 's heirs: 
Held all they claiin'd as forfeit lands, 
Deliver'd up into his hauds, 
And past upon his conscience, 
By pre-entail of Providence, 
Impeach'd the rest for reprobates, 
That had no title to estates, 
But by their spiritual attaints 
Degraded from their right of saints." 

He next proceeds to characterise the two principal 
sects, the Presbyterians and Independents, whom the 
artist has cleverly embodied in the cuts we have given. 
u Poor Presbyter was now reduced, 

Secluded, and cashier*d, and chous'd — 

Turu'd out, and excommunicate 

From all affairs of church and state, 

Reform'd to a Heformado saint, 

And glad to turn itinerant, 

To stroll and teach from town to town, 

And those he liad taught up teach down, 

And make those uses serve again 

Against the new-enlight'ned men; 

As fit as when at first they were 

Reveal'd against the Cavalier ; 

Damn Anabaptist and fanatic, 

As pat as Popish and Prelatic ; 

And with as little variation, 

To serve for any sect i' th' nation. 

The good old Cause, which some believe 

To be the devil that tempted Eve 

With knowledge, and does still invite 

The world to mischief with New Light, 

Had store of money in her purse, 

When he took her for bett'r or worse ; 

But now was grown deform M and poor, 

And tit to be turn'd out of door. 

The Independents (whose first station 

Was in the rear of reformation, 

A mongrel kind of church-dragoons. 

That serv'd for horse and foot at once, 

And in the saddle of one steed 

The Saracen and Christian rid : 

Were free of ev'ry spiritual order, 

To preach, and fight, and pray, and murder :) 



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No sooner got the start to lurch 

Both disciplines, of war and church, 

And providence enough to run 

The chief commanders of 'em down, 

But carried on the war against 

The common enemy o* th' suit its, 

And in a while prevail'd so far, 

To win of them the game of war, 

And be at liberty once more, 

T attack themselves as th* had before/' 

There is no occasion to enter upon the disputed 
question of the true character ana motives of the 
religious sects, but the dissensions are well described 
which paved the way to the Restoration ; nor shall we 
attempt to depreciate the beautiful sketch which fol- 
lows of the character of the Royalists. He has himself 
done this in other parts of his writings, which we shall 
subsequently quote : — 

"This when the Royalists perceived 
(Who to their faith as firmly cleav'd, 
And own'd the right they had paid down 
So dearly for, the Church and Crown), 
Th' united constanter, and sided 
The more, the more their foes divided. 
For tho* outnumbered, overthrown, 
And by the fate of war run down ; 
Their duty never was defeated, 
Nor from their oaths and faith retreated ; 
For loyalty is still the same 
Whether it win or lose the game; 
True as the dial to the sun, 
Although it be not shiu'd upon. 
But when these brethren in evil, 
Their adversaries, and the devil, 
Began once more to show them play, 
And hopes, at least, to have a day ; 
They rallied in parades of woo<la. 
And unfrequented solitudes, 
Conven'd at midnight in out-houses, * 
T' appoint new-rising rendezvouses, 
And with a pertinacy unmatch'd, 
For new recruits of danger watch'd. 
No sooner was one blow diverted, 
But up another party started, 
And, as if nature too in haste, 
To furnish out supplies as fast, 
Before her time had turu'd destruction 
T a new and numerous production ; 
No sooner those were overcome, 
But up rose others in their room, 
That, like the Christian faith, increas'd 
The more, the more they were suppress'd : 
Whom neither chains, nor transportation, 
Proscription, sale, or confiscation, 
Nor all the desperate events 
Of former tried experiments, 
Nor wounds, could terrify, nor mangling, 
To leave off loyalty and dangling, 
Nor death (with all his bones) affright 
From vent'ring to maintain the right, 
From staking life and fortune down 
'Gainst all together, for the crown, 
But kept the title of their cause 
From forfeiture, like claims in laws : 
And prov'd no prosperous usurpation 
Can ever settle on the nation, 
Until, in suite of force and treason, 
They put their loy'lty in possession ; 
And by their constancy and faith, 
Destroy 'd the mighty men of Gath." 

After noticing the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the 
efforts of the Millennium and Fifth Monarchy men, he 
gives a description of two eminent men of the opposite 
party, with all his own peculiar wit and all the preju- 
dice of a partisan. Of the first, the celebrated Anthony 
Ashley Cooper, afterwards Earl of Shaftesbury, he 
says — 



" 'Mong these there was a politician, 
With more heads than a beast in vision, 
And more intrigues in ev'ry one 
Than all the whores of Babylon ; 
So politic, as if one eye 
Upon the other were a spy : 
That to trepan the one to think 
The other blind, both strove to blink: 
And in his dark pragmatic way 
As busy as a child at play. 
H' had seen three governments run down, 
And had a hand in ev'ry one ; 
Was for 'em and against 'em all, 
But barb'rous when they came to fall ; 
For by trepanning th 1 old to ruin, 
He made his int'rest with the new one; 
Play'd true and faithful, though against 
His conscience, and was still advaue'd. 
For by the witchcraft of rebellion 
TrausfornVd t' a feeble state-cameleon, 
By giving aim to either side, 
He never faiPd to save his tide, 
But got the start of ev'ry state. 
And at a change ne'er came too late ; 
Could tum his word, and oath, atd faith, 
As many ways as in a lathe, 
By turning, wriggle, like a screw, 
Int' highest trust, and out for new. 
For when h* had happily incurr*d, 
Instead of hemp, to be preferr'd, 
And pass'd upon a government, 
He play'd his trick, and out he went ; 
But being out, and out of hopes 
To mount his ladder (more) of ropes, 
Would strive to raise himself upon 
The public ruin, and his own. 
So little did he understand 
The desp'rate feats he took in hand. 
For when h' had got himself a name 
For fraud and tricks, he spoil'd his game ; 
Had fore'd his neck into a noose 
To show his play at fast and loose ; 
And when he chane'd t' escape, mistook 
For art and subtlety his luck, 
So right his judgment was cut fit, 
And made a tally to his wit, 
And both together most profound 
At deeds of darkness underground : 
As th' earth is easiest undermin'd 
By vermin impotent and blind. 

By all these arts, and many more, 
H' had practis'd long and much before, 
Our state-artificer foresaw 
Which way the world began to draw. 
For as old sinners have all points 
O* th' compass in their bones and joints ; 
Can by their pangs and aches find 
All turns and changes of the wind, 
And better than by Napier's bones, 
Feel in their own the age of moons : 
So guilty sinners in a state, 
Can by their crimes prognosticate, 
And in their consciences feel pain 
Some days before a shower of rain. 
He therefore wisely cast about, 
All ways he could, t' insure his throat ; 
And hither came t' observe and smoke 
What courses other riskers took : 
And to the utmost do his best 
To save himself, and hang the rest" 

These general characteristics he has also embodied 
in his prose works, where, under the head of a * State 
Convert,' he says — 

"Is a thrifty penitent, that never left rebellion until it led 
him. He has always appeared very faithful and constant to 
his principles to the very last : for as he first engaged against 
the crown for no other reason but his own advantages, so he 
afterward faced abour, and declared for it for the very same con- 
sideration ; and when there was no more to be made of it, was 



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thoroughly convinced, and renounced it from the bottom of his 

heart He was very much unsatisfied in his conscience with 

the government of the church, as long as Presbytery bore the bag, 
and had money to receive for betraying Christ ; but as soou as 
those saints were gulled and cheated of all, and that the covenant 
began to be no better than a beggarly ceremony, his eyes were 
presently opened, and all his scruples vanished in a moment. 
He did his endeavour to keep out the king as long as he could 
possibly j but when there was no hopes left to prevail any longer, 
he made a virtue of necessity, and appeared among the foremost 
of those that were most earnest to bring him in: and, like 
Lipsitis's dog, resolved to have his share in that which he was 
able to defend no longer. What be gained by serving against 
the king he laid out to purchase profitable employments in his 
service ; for be is one that will neither obey nor rebel against 
him for nothing; and though he inclines naturally to the latter, 
yet he has so much of a saint left as to deny himself, when he 
cannot have his will, and denounce agaiust self-seeking, until 
he is sure to find what be looks for. He pretends to be the only 
man in the world that brought in the king, which is in one sense 
very true ; for if he had not driven him out first, it bad been 
impossible ever to have brought him in. He endures his prefer- 
ment patiently ('though he esteems it no better than a relapse), 
merely for the profit he receives by it; and prevails with himself 
to be satisfied with that and the hopes of seeing better times, and 
then resolves to appear himself again, and let the world see 
he is no changeling : and therefore he rejoices in bis heart at 
any miscarriages of state-affairs, and endeavours to improve 
them to the uttermost, partly to vindicate his own former 
actions, and partly in hope to see the times come about again 
to him, as he did to them." 

The other personage described by him is Colonel 
John Lilburn, of whom he says— 

" To match this saint, there was another, 
As busy and perverse a brother, 
An haberdasher of small wares 
In politics and state-affairs ; 
More Jew than Rabbi Acbitophel, 
And better gifted to rebel : 
For when h* had taught his tribe to spouse 
The Cause, aloft, upon one house, 
He scorn'd to set his own in order, 
But tried another, and went farther ; 
So sullenly addicted still 
To a only principle, his will, 
That whatsoe'er it chane'd to prove, 
Nor force of argument could move, 
Nor law, nor cavalcade of Holborn, 
Could render half a grain less stubborn. 
For he at any time would hang, 
For th' opportunity t' harangue : 
And rather on a gibbet dangle, 
Than miss his dear delight to wrangle; 
In which his parts were so accomplished, 
That, right or wrong, he ne'er was non-pluss'd ; 
Bnt still his tongue ran on, the less 
Of weight it bore, with greater ease, 
And with its everlasting clack 
Set all men s ears upon the rack. 
No sooner could a hint appear, 
But up he started to picqueer, 
And made the stoutest yield to mercy, 
When he engaged in controversy. 
Not by the force of carnal reason, 
But indefatigable teasing ; 
With volleys of eternal babble, 
And clamour more unanswerable. 
For though his topics frail and weak, 
Could ne'er amount above a freak, 
He still maintained 'em, like his faults, 
Against the desp'ratest assaults ; 
A*nd back'd their feeble want of sense, 
With greater heat and confidence. 
As bones of Hectors, when they differ, 
The more they 're cudgell'd grow the stiffen 
Yet when his profit moderated, 
The fury of his beat abated : 
For nothing but his interest 
Could lay his devil of contest : 



It was his choice, or chance, or curse, 
T espouse the Cause for bett'r or worse, 
And with his worldly goods and wit, 
And soul, and body, worshipp'd it : 
But when he found the sullen trapes, 
Possess' d with th* devil, worms, aud claps 
The Trojan mare in foal with Greeks, 
Not half so full of jadish tricks, 
Though squeamish in her outward woman, 
As loose and rampant as Doll Common ; 
He still resolved to mend the matter, 
T' adhere and cleave the obstinalcr : 
And still the skittisber and looser 
Her freaks appear' d, to sit the closer. 
For fools are stubborn in their way, 
As coins are hardened by th' allay ; 
And obstinacy *s ne'er so stiff, 
As when 'tis in a wrong belief. 
These two, with others, being met, 
And close in consultation set; 
After a discontented pause, 
And not without sufficient cause, 
The orator we nam'd of late, 
Less troubled with the pangs of state, 
Than with his own impatience, 
To give himself first audience, 
After he bad a while look'd wise, 
At last broke silence, and the ice." 

It is curious, however, to see how very different an 
estimate may be made of the same man. An intelli- 
gent foreigner, who has well and deeply studied 
English history, M.Augustine Thierry, in his 'His- 
torical Essays/ speaking of the character of the great 
men of the Revolution of 1640, says of Lilburn : " Lil- 
burn, mutilated by order of King Charles the First for 
having dared to write ; and who, thus marked with the 
reprobation of tyranny, braved it again by writing 
under Cromwell. Tyranny did not forget him; 'he 
died in prison,' eloquently says M. Villemain, 'a martyr 
to liberty under all authorities, and treated as a chime- 
rical and senseless mind by those who cannot conceive 
resistance to the strongest.' " 



THOMAS FULLER. 



[Continued from p. 136.] 

It would be out of place here to touch ever so slightly 
on his theological teaching, but it may not be amiss to 
show his singular manner of handling morals from the 
pulpit, and this sermon on gluttony affords us a fair 
opportunity. He warns against its danger, because 
of the difficulty of discerning its earliest advances. 
"Some sins come with observation, and are either 
ushered with a noise, or, like a snail, leave a slime be- 
hind them, whereby they may be traced and tracked, 
as drunkenness. The Ephraimites were differenced 
from the rest of the Israelites by their lisping ; they 
could not pronounce h. Thus drunkards are distin- 
guished from the king's sober subjects by clipping the 
coin of the tongue ; but there are not such signs and 
symptoms of gluttony." Further, it is dangerous be- 
cause of its injury to the mind. "That soul must 
needs be unfitting to serve God so encumbered. That 
man hath but an uncomfortable life who is confined to 
live in a smoky house. The brain is one of these 
places of the residence of the souls, and when that is 
filled with steams and vapours arising from uncon- 
cocted crudities in the stomach, the soul must needs 
dwell uncheerfully, ill accommodated in so smoky a 
mansion ; and as hereby it is unapt for the performance 
of good, so it is ready for most evil — for uncleanness, 
scurrility, ill speaking. Secondly, this sin impairs the 
health of the body : the outlandish proverb saith, that 
the glutton digs his grave with his own teeth. Must 
there not be a battle and insurrection in his stomach, 
wherein there is meat, hot, cold, sod, roast, flesh, fish ? 



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and which side. soever wins, nature and health will be 
overcome, when as a man's body is like unto the ark of 
Noah, containing all beasts, clean and unclean ; but he 
the most unclean beast that contains them. Our law 
interprets it to be murder when one is killed with a 
knife. Let us take heed we be not all condemned for 
being felos de se; for wilfully murdering our own 
jives with our knives, by our superfluous eating. . . . 
Lastly, it wrongeth the poor ; for it is the overmuch 
feasting of Dives which of necessity maketh the fasting 
of Lazarus ; and might not the superfluous meat of the 
rich be sold for many a pound, and given to the poor ?" 
He dwells strongly on